Fresh Starts and Flirtations
by You-drive-me-nuts-miller
Summary: Seeking a fresh start, Emma Swan moves to sleepy Storybrooke, Maine. Killian Jones is the resident town cad, gorgeous yet infamous for his inability to commit. But when stakes are raised and a bet is placed - who will end up winning, if anyone?
1. First Impressions

Her neck is creaking after sitting in the same position for more than five hours. It's warm and a little stuffy so she rolls down the window and smiles when a gust of cool, damp air hits her face. Beside her, her son is dozing; his cheek pressed against the window, his phone sliding out of his hand and the game of Minecraft forgotten. A soft smile passes her lips as she tosses him a brief glance.

Most kids would have made a big deal out of being moved 1,000 miles away from everything they had known. But Henry? She was convinced he was twelve going on twenty.

The evening she had broken the news that she was being transferred, he had amazed her with his response.

"Whatever makes you happy, Mom. I can make new friends in Maine. We have the internet, Facebook…I can keep in touch with my friends here too."

She had wanted to hug him tight (and she did, until he wriggled free, wiping his cheek where she had layered him in wet kisses).

"So, I get to go to a new school?"he had asked, suddenly excited.

"I guess,"she'd shrugged in reply, having not yet really gotten down to thinking about the practicalities. "But our first job, is to pack…"

It had taken two weeks of evenings and weekends to box up their apartment. A small mountain of bags had been taken to goodwill and a similar amount to the recycling depot, until less than three weeks after she had announced the move, the two had packed up a U-Haul truck, ready for the ten hour drive.

"Mom."

Shaken from her recollections, she replies, "Hmmm?"

"Where are we?"

In just that moment, the road dips into a wooded area. A large wooden sign greeting visitors announced '_Welcome to Storybrooke_.'

"We're home,"she replies with a contented sigh.

/

Kilian Jones is damn tired.

Last night's date with Ruby Lucas had been…interesting, to say the least. Mid-week socializing was not his usual style, but when a sexy brunette with legs up to her ears only has one night off, what's a man to do?

Pulling his collar a little bit higher, he smirks as he walks into Storybrooke Middle School. The memory of her lips nuzzling against his neck will certainly make the day more pleasurable. He always hated Thursdays - double English with his sixth grade class followed by debate with his homeroom kids. Yet he had a good feeling that today would buck that trend.

Sliding into the teacher's lounge, he quickly fills a glass with water to ease his mild hangover and then fixes a strong cup of coffee to rectify the tired ache he's carrying on his shoulders.

"Heavy night ,mate?"

At the sound of his best friend's voice, he pauses and turns. Robin Locksley, PE teacher and partner in crime, is sauntering towards him, a teasing smile on his lips.

"Not bad,"Killian quips, turning back to his coffee.

"Come on,"Robin pleads, moving to lounge against the countertop beside him, "You can't leave me hanging like this!"

Slowly, Killian stirs in two sugars and then lifts his cup to take a sip. Robinscowls.

"A gentleman never tells."

Scoffing, Robin pulls out his own cup from the cupboard and pours his own drink. "You, a gentleman? Pull the other one!"

And Killian knows he is right. After all, you don't get a reputation as the town's biggest womanizer with romance and red roses. He leans closer to his friend, conscious that the lounge was beginning to fill. As much as he wasn't ashamed of his private life, he didn't exactly boast about it at work. Maintaining a professional facade suited him better.

"She wears Chanel number 5 and no panties. She prefers being on top and gives amazing head. And she likes two eggs and bacon for breakfast."

Giving a quick wink, he turns on his heel and goes for the door, leaving Robin grinning and shaking his head behind him.

Ah yes, he thinks sipping his coffee as he heads to his classroom, today will be a good day.

/

"Do you have your lunch money?"

"Yes Mom."

"And you'll call me at lunch to let me know how it's going."

With a wry smile, Henry lifts his phone from his hoodie pocket.

Emma knows she is overreacting.

"Mom, I'm twelve, you know."

"I know,"she sighs, tugging him close, "I forget sometimes though."

Reaching over, she gently ruffles his hair until he laughs and grabs the door handle. She joins him outside, locking the rental car she has for her first couple of weeks in town and the two of them head for the tall, red brick building.

It's autumn, and the steps to the entrance are covered in a blanket of curling, orange-toned leaves. The wide wood and glass doors remind her of her old high school in Boston. A flash of nostalgia slips over her as they head inside and walk to the administration office.

Everyone is friendly and open (she's missed that living in a big city) and she's asked to wait while they find Henry's homeroom teacher. As it's his first day, they like to have parents and teachers meet briefly - to put a name to a face, if you will.

There is a row of plastic chairs lined along a wall outside the office. Behind them is a notice board advertising bake sales, dances, the PTA…

She feels good. This was a good decision. Moving someplace cozier, smaller- yes. It was a good choice.

Henry is fidgeting with his backpack. She knows he is a little nervous, no matter how much he hides it. It's a big thing, changing schools. And she loves that he is so open to all this.

Because yes, moving here has meant she could accept a promotion, and yes, they'll have a house now - not an apartment - and he'll have a bigger room and she'll have a nicer car…but more than that, she realized that it is a fresh start for them both.

Footsteps break her from her reverie. She turns to Henry and squeezes his arm.

"Miss - Swan?"

At the sound of her name she twists her head. And her breath catches.

The man in front of her is holding out his hand. Henry has stood already beside her. She's dumbstruck for a moment.

He's handsome. Dark hair, blue eyes…that layer of stubble that she finds so attractive on a man. Her stomach flips a little and she mentally chastises herself, feeling the blush creep up her chest as she takes his hand and shakes it.

(And hell, it's warm and large and soft and strong at the same time…)

"Um, yes,"she finally manages to say, dipping her head to hide her blushes behind her long blond hair.

"I'm Mr. Jones. I will be Henry's homeroom teacher this year."

"Mr. Jones,"Henry quips, reaching out his own hand to shake the man's offered one. Emma smirks at the expression on the boy's face - so serious and business like. "Nice to meet you."

"And you too,"Mr. Jones replies.

Emma shifts on her feet, her fingers tangling in the leather strap of her purse that she is still holding in front of her.

"So,"he begins, lifting up a sheath of papers he has in his left hand, "You just moved here? From Philadelphia?"

"Yeah,"Emma nods, feeling the heat in her cheeks cool a little, "I work for Mills Security Consultants. I'm heading up the North East division."

"Congratulations,"he smiles, his voice warm, his accent (she just noticed it - how did she just notice it…) wrapping gently around the words and she can't deny her stomach jumps a little.

"Thank you…Um, on that note I am going to be late if I don't leave now."She looks at Henry and squeezes his shoulder, "You okay?"

"Yes Mom,"he answers, his voice a little exasperated, "I'm fine. Now go, please-"

And she kinda knows that he is acting that way because the hallway is starting to fill with students and a good first impression in a new school does not involve your mom kissing you goodbye on your first day. "'Kay,"she nods.

Maybe it's a little rude, but her head's a bit fuzzy from the nerves of leaving her son at a new school and starting a new job (and, yes, her son's rather attractive new teacher), but she hauls her purse onto her shoulder and begins to walk away.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Swan."

It's him. She twists on her heels and smiles, "You too,"she replies, before dashing off to the car, her heart racing as she checks her watch.

Damn, she's going to be late after all.

/

She was ten minutes late. In the Philly office that would have earned her a disapproving look or two from some of her more obtuse (childless) colleagues. But she was surprised to find herself welcomed with open arms by the small team she was now to head up.

It had always amused her that such a big company was headquartered in such a small town, but Regina Mills, the CEO, was born and bred in Storybrooke and insisted on the company keeping its roots in Maine. That said, the small office at the south end of Main Street was run by a minimal staff, with division heads for each region that coordinated the local offices that stretched across 32 states and the executive office where the board sat.

The day flew by as she learned the ropes. Lunch was a fun occasion. The team had taken her to a local diner, Granny's, that they assured her did the best burgers in three states.

(They were right.)

She'd negotiated getting off work early three days a week so she could pick up Henry from school. It was a little thing in some ways, but something she'd never been able to do in Philadelphia. Sure, it'd mean some early starts and weekend work, but it was worth it.

So she's at the school ten minutes before the final bell. They'd agreed to meet at the office so that Emma could fill out any additional paperwork the school needed (and she was a little worried he would get lost finding the parking lot. She knew it was ridiculous, but still…).

Waiting at the same spot she had left him, she stands and takes the time to read the notice board she had previously seen.

A sudden, strange, impulse overcomes her.

There is a poster asking for parents to join the PTA.

Emma Swan: security expert, great with a gun - not with a baking pan, joining the PTA? She wants to laugh.

But then she's at the office window, filling out a form as Henry trundles towards her.

"What you doing, Mom?"

"Joining the PTA,"she quietly replies, feeling a little embarrassed even in front of her son.

"You?"he cries incredulously.

"Yes, me,"she sniffs, the tiniest bit offended at her son's response. "I'm new here too, you know."

She shrugs, "Might be a good way for me to meet some new people."

Henry's face softens and she knows he gets it. The whole focus on this move has been him and how he will be happier and he will be able to make all these new friends. It must never have occurred to him before that his mom was making a big change too.

"Actually Mom, that's a great idea."

She smiles. Sometimes he was too damn mature for his own good.

/

The teacher's lounge is on the top floor of the building. It's large, deep windows overlook the front of the school. School finished five minutes ago. Students are starting to disperse. The fall winds are shaking yet more leaves from the trees as Killian watches, nursing his sixth cup of coffee of the day (but it was worth it, right? he tells himself).

Robin is beside him before he realizses - he smells like locker room sweat. "You need a shower,"Killian quips.

"You're not overly fresh yourself, mate."

Killian smiles in reply. A hangover plus a packed schedule have look him looking a little worse for wear.

"Good day then?"Robin asks, the tone of his voice laden with innuendo.

"Yes. Very good."

He stills when he sees it. That long blonde hair, being whipped up by the wind. Her fingers are clawing it away from her face. Henry is beside her.

"Hmm?"he asks, realizing Robin had said something.

"I asked if you planned on round two with Miss Lucas, but you seem a little distracted."He nudges his friend and points at the street below, "Who is she?"

Killian rolls his eyes. Was he really that transparent? Robin knew him better than anyone and even he seemed to think that Killian's mind was only ever on one thing - women.

(Which, yes, it was at the moment…)

"Miss Swan. Just moved here, her kid is in my homeroom."

The two watch as she unlocks her car that was parked twenty yards or so away from the entrance. She bends down to open the door, giving the two a very nice view of her pert derriere.

"A parent? That's a new one, even for you Jones."

"No,"he begins, tearing his eyes away to look at Robin. He sees the playful glint in his eye. "She's attractive, but you know, I like to separate work and pleasure."

"Losing your touch?"

Killian feels his pride a little wounded by the insinuation.

"Never,"he snips, draining his coffee.

"Well, if you're not interested, I might try my luck…"

"And what would Regina have to say about that?"

Robin's face turns red. His not-so-secret on/off affair with the head of the town's biggest and most successful company was a sore spot. "Nothing at the moment."

"You've broken up again?"

Robin shrugs and Killian chuckles. Give them a few days and things will be back on. It was always the same with those two.

"Look, I didn't say I wasn't interested I just don't want to dip my nib in the office ink, so to speak."

They both laugh. Saying that out loud sounded ridiculous, even to him.

"You see, I think the problem is that you can't do it. I think, that she would run a mile from you, especially when she hears your reputation."

"Seriously?"

Robin nods.

The car has driven off now and the two turn back into the room. It's empty. Most teachers leave as soon as they can after school, Killian prefers to get all his work done there, keeping that distance between work and home.

"I can see you are trying to goad me into something here, Locksley…"

Robin grins.

"A bet."

Killian raises his eyebrows.

"You try and seduce Miss Swan."

"Try?"He licks his lips. He was never able to resist a challenge.

"Yes, because when you fail, you will be fronting my bar tab at The Rabbit Hole for the next month."

"Interesting,"Killian hummed, bringing his hand up to scratch behind his ear as he thought. "And if I do succeed?"

Robin folded his arms, "What do you propose?"

An evil little smile lit up Killian's face. "_When _I succeed, you will stop arseing around and finally take that woman of yours out on a date. In public. And three weeks bar tab for me too."

Eyeing him, the edges of Robin's lips curve into a smile.

"Time table?"

"Give me a month,"Killian replied confidently. It was an over-estimation; of course, it had never taken him more than a few days to talk a woman into bed (usually only a few hours- if that).

"Deal,"Robin agreed, holding out his hand to shake on in. Killian grasps his friends hand and squeezes tight. "Now go get laid,"he laughs.


	2. The Refreshments Committee

Never let it be said that Killian Jones was a man who did not do his research.

First port of call had, of course, been her son.

He'd felt a little uncomfortable when he carefully slipped in questions about the boy's home life into their conversations, but Henry was open and happy to share.

So far he had discovered that her first name was Emma, she was single and had been 'for as long as I can remember'. He got the strong impression that in Philadelphia she had been married to her job, which made it a pleasant surprise when Henry revealed that she had joined the PTA.

"How interesting," Killian mused after school that day.

He needed an in. Most women he 'dated' were the kind who hung out in bars or at singles nights. To think of it, he had only ever slept with one woman who had kids - and their father had primary custody. So, as much as it would have been easier to engineer a meeting at The Rabbit Hole, he had to get creative.

And that's how he found himself signing up for the homecoming dance committee of the PTA.

"Really?" the administration assistant has asks when he had arrived at the office the next Monday morning.

"Really," he insists, scowling a little at her chuckle as she gathers up the paper work.

Noting down his name, staff ID number and contact number, he hands back the clipboard to the amused woman.

"What?" he asks, a little exasperated.

"Nothing," she smiles, shaking her head and tutting as she turns away.

/

It's six pm the next day and he's walking into the school's auditorium, coffee in hand, ready for the meeting.

Miss Blanchard, the English teacher who chaired the PTA waves when she sees him. They didn't know each other that well but she seemed like a nice woman.

"Killian," she smiles, "I was so surprised when I saw you had signed up!"

Taking a sip of coffee, he then pulls a face, "Good surprised, or…"

She playfully slaps his arm, "Good of course! We need fresh blood this year."

Nodding, he takes a seat next to her.

The room is filling and he feels a twinge of disappointment when he can't yet see the pretty blonde (and the reason he came here in the first place). He fixes a smile as he nurses his coffee, mentally making an escape plan should this prove to be as boring and painful as he expects.

The PTA is made up of around a dozen parents and almost as many staff; mostly the older ones nearing retirement. Mrs. Dauber, the home economics teacher, sits through the meeting knitting what looks like a tiny sweater. Mr. King, the aging French teacher, asks Miss Blanchard to repeat herself on three occasions, clearly unable to hear properly. Killian grits his teeth.

He looks at the large clock on the opposite wall. How had only twenty minutes passed? In his mind, he starts rehearsing an excuse. Tonight is Ladies Night at The Rabbit Hole and right now he should really be getting ready…

Just then, there is a clatter of heels on the wooden flooring. To his left, Miss Blanchard pauses mid speech as in waltzes Emma Swan, hair a fluster from the wind, cheeks rosy and cherry red scarf around her neck.

"Sorry I'm late," she pants, "I got stuck at work."

"Oh my goodness, please don't fret-" Miss Blanchard is up and walking towards Emma before Killian has even processed her arrival and is guiding her back in his direction, "Here, sit, relax. There are no formalities at the PTA, we know we all have busy lives… Miss Swan, right?"

Emma nods as she unravels her scarf. She sits in the seat on the other side of Miss Blanchard, only a few feet away. He looks and she gives him a brief smile.

And that's it. It hits him.

She is beautiful. Stunning, even.

At their first meeting he had been too distracted by thoughts of his previous night's activities and his raging headache to really notice more than the fact she was attractive and petite, his general type. (He wasn't overly fussy).

But now she was not much more than an arm's length away, he realizes just how short his original assessment had fallen.

Casting her secretive glances as the meeting resumes, he finds himself admiring her high cheekbones and soft red lips. She didn't appear to be wearing much make up. It was refreshing. Instead of powder, he could see her fine creamy complexion. Fresh and appealing, he imagined how it would taste under his tongue.

His eyes scan her body; though covered in a short leather coat and black dress slacks, he notices the lean muscle underneath that runs into the curve of her waist and breasts. She is very fit, he could tell- and strong too, he assumes.

She shifts and crosses her legs. The muscles in her thighs flex and his gut contracts as his mind spins with thoughts of what he could do with those legs. She catches him looking. He smiles and he swears she blushes. Then she is tugging off her jacket and revealing the sheer silk blouse underneath. The gauzy material reveals a hint of bra. He swallows and feels a wave of want pass over him.

Yes, she was very attractive.

That would make things even easier.

The meeting droned on and Killian paid little attention, his thoughts fixed on Emma Swan and how he could wrangle a bit of her time-

"Killian, would you be up for that?"

_Shit._

He looks at Miss Blanchard, her open, expectant expression telling him he had missed something.

"Er…"

"I could help."

It was her, Emma Swan. Blinking a few times, his mind clears and he smiles, "Of course, I'd love to."

"Great," Miss Blanchard grins, raising her pen to write their names in the grid on the clipboard on her lap, "Emma and Killian will be handling refreshments."

The rest of the meeting was as much of a blur as previously. Other groups were formed, budgets assigned and then the committee was disbanded, a meeting arranged for one week's time to check on progress. The dance was in just over three weeks so time was of the essence.

After, he lingers, chatting with a few other faculty members as he watches Emma in conversation with Miss Blanchard, the two talking animatedly.

Finally, she's slipping on that leather jacket again and he makes his move.

"Miss Swan," he says smoothly, holding out his hand.

"Emma," she replies, taking his and shaking it firmly as she flips her hair out from under her coat with the other. "So I guess we are going to be working together."

"So it seems," he beams, before correcting his smile into something a little more sedate. She picks up her scarf and purse.

"So how does this work? I mean, do we just go shopping or…"

He wanted to reply that he had no bloody clue himself, but he bit his tongue and thought on his feet. What he needed was time alone with her. One trip together to Costco was not going to win him this bet.

"Well," he begins, stepping just that little bit closer (and now he can smell her perfume and it is - as expected - delicious), "I'd say a little planning goes a long way. How about we get together and crunch some numbers, make a list and all that."

The little smiles she gives is more than enough answer. "Okay, sure. May as well do this right - huh?"

He gives a brief nod.

They quickly exchange numbers ('I need to get back to my son' she explains) and he watches as she dashes from the auditorium as quickly as she arrived.

/

"You're late," Robin quips.

"You're here," Killian replies as he slides onto the stool next to his friend. "Regina?"

"Not answering her phone."

Robin slides him a beer and the two tap bottle necks before turning in their seats to survey the bar. "So what was the hold up?"

"I was at a PTA meeting." He chases his words with a sip.

"What?"

"With Emma Swan."

"Ohh," Robin sighs, lying back a little so he is resting against the bar. "And?"

"We are now both on the refreshments committee for homecoming."

Laughing, Robin tries to take a drink but instead ends up spluttering and coughing until Killian hits him sharply on the back. "Thanks mate," Robin wheezes.

The bar is getting busier now as it's past eight. Two attractive brunettes saunter by them. Robin winks and the one closest turns her head and winks back in reply.

"So what's your plan with this woman then? I mean, I'm assuming you have one, aside from doling out cups of punch at a middle school dance…"

Killian pushes his tongue into his cheek and rolls his eyes. Robin seemed to take no greater pleasure than in winding him up.

"More of a plan than you have for fixing things with your lass, I'd say." Robin's scowl was enough reward. He signals the barman for another round. "She's not my usual type, so I have to take things a bit more slowly. Gain her trust. Romance her a little. This dance thing is just an in - a perfect excuse to spend some time alone."

Robin raises his brows in disbelief.

"In fact, I already have her number," he lifts his phone and taps into his phone book.

"I'm impressed. Mildly, I mean."

Killian smirks. "And we will be meeting one night this week to work on our assignment."

"Study date?" Robin teases, taking the two beers the bartender offers and handing over a ten dollar bill.

"Laugh as much as you want, mate, but I hope you're saving those pennies for my bar tab. I think next month I plan on being a frequent visitor to this place."

"We'll see about that," Robin replies, before nudging Killian in the ribs. "Speaking of women-"

Across the room the two women from earlier are dancing to the music pounding from the speakers dotted around. They both toss glances at the men, being pretty blatant about wanting their company.

"Come on then, Locksley," Killian sighs, standing and straightening his shirt, "It seems like we are wanted."

/

It's late when her phone buzzes. She's not quite asleep yet, but not quite awake, either.

Henry had eaten by the time she made it back. He'd disappeared soon after to his room, homework in hand, leaving her to continue the unpacking process, which currently seemed never ending.

After a shower, she'd slipped into bed. New sheets and an unfamiliar mattress adding to the general unsettled feeling in her stomach. Not a bad sensation, really. Just a strange one.

Her mind was filled with words and thoughts and feelings. About work. About Henry. And, other things…

She reminded herself (again) that her priority was Henry. He needed to be happy and settled and then, well, everything else would fall into place. But denying her crush (cos that's what it felt like - when you're a teenager and someone makes butterflies appear in your stomach and ties your tongue) on his teacher was pointless, well, at least to herself. He was cute, about her age and seemed like a nice enough guy.

Crushing on him was no harm, really.

God, not that it would go any further than an innocent flirtation. That had nothing to do with why she had offered to help him, nor why she had let Miss Blanchard sit them so closely at the meeting…

Her phone buzzes again, demanding attention.

It's a text. Swiping her thumb across the screen, she squints as he eyes adjust to the bright light it's emitting.

_Emma - how about Friday for our meeting?_

It takes her a second or two to realize who it is from. She blinks a few times and shuffles up a little higher in bed. She looks at the time - after midnight.

Why is he texting her so late?

She sees the line of dots that tells her he is typing more.

_Damn, sorry, just saw the time, I guess you are asleep_

She rubs her eyes and swallows quickly before typing

_No, I'm awake._

(Half a lie)

_Friday sounds good. Where do you suggest we meet?_

Her heart is thudding while she waits for his reply. God, why does she feel like a little kid again? A guy hasn't given her this giddy feeling in years. And she barely knows him.

_Yours? I mean, I presume you need to stay in for Henry._

Yes. Of course. Her son.

_Yes, _she taps, _that would work. Maybe after dinner. Eight-ish?_

It seems to take him an age to enter his reply. She's fidgeting. Curling her toes into her sheets and fighting with her overstuffed pillow. Then her phone buzzes.

_Perfect. See you then. _

She smiles, the giddy smile of someone involved in a little harmless flirtation who had just secured a minor success.

A night with a handsome teacher wouldn't be so bad, she thinks.

She's then hit with a sudden thought.

_I just realized I don't know your first name._

_It's Killian. _

That's a nice name, she thinks sleepily.

_Goodnight Emma._

The last message catches her a little off guard, she quickly whips back a reply.

_Goodnight Killian x_

She re-reads what she has written.

Shit shit shit.

Why did she add the kiss? Hell, what will he think? She groans as she remonstrates her uncooperative thumb for adding the automatic x that she puts on her texts to Henry. She waits to see if there is any further reply. There isn't. She's halfway between sad and relieved.

Tired, she tosses the phone aside and tries to get comfortable.

Damn, she thinks as she drifts off, must be more careful…

/

He's amused by the little x at the end of her message.

He tries not to read too much into is as he strolls back to his apartment, with two new numbers in his phone. Options for a date this weekend, he thinks.

It was probably automatic. Most women added those little kisses onto texts. He'd had enough of them to know that.

Still he couldn't help but imagine that she meant it. That maybe, she had a thing for him.

Stuffing the phone in his pocket, he pushes his key in the lock of his building and goes inside.

Well, she had to at least find him attractive. In order for this stupid bet to work, at least.

Though there was a little smile on his lips as he checked his messages once more, imagining that maybe there was a little more to it than that.

_**Reviews and feedback mean the world to me :D**_


	3. Not a Date

Friday comes and she and Henry decide to celebrate their first week in town with an early dinner at Granny's (he steals her french fries and she slips a second straw in his chocolate milkshake). The diner is busy and homely. She is more sure than ever that they made the right decision.

They walk off their burgers with a stroll by the docks, pointing out the different boats as Henry recounts his week and talks about the new friends he has made. She is so glad he is settling in so easily. It eases the small ache in the back of her mind. All she wants is for him to be happy.

It's 7:30 by the time they are heading home. Killian texts her just as she puts the key in the ignition.

_Still okay for tonight?_

And yes, she smiles a little.

"You okay, Mom?"

She's typing her reply as she answers, "PTA stuff. Mr. Jones and I are going to be working on the homecoming dance tonight."

"Hmm," Henry frowns. For a second Emma is worried. "Cool," Henry continues, "I like Mr. Jones."

She fastens her belt as she turns the key.

_Me too, _she thinks.

/

"Locksley," Killian answers breezily when his phone rings.

"Killian, what you up to, mate?"

Killian can hear the bar noise in the background. "Why? You still propping up the bar?"

He can hear the snort of his friend in reply. "Those two from Ladies Night are here. They're asking about you."

"Sorry mate, busy tonight."

"Miss Lucas, I take it?"

"No," he snips, frowning as he remembers to keep avoiding her shifts at Granny's for the near future, "Emma Swan."

"A date already? I'm impressed."

(And Killian can hear the sarcastic tone in his friend's voice.)

"If it were a date, Locksley, you'd know. We're planning for the dance, actually. At her house."

There's a pause before he responds.

"Good luck."

Killian clucks his tongue, "Really? No retort? No sarcasm? I thought this was a bet."

"That it is mate, between gentlemen."

He knows Robin can't see him but he still rolls his eyes. "Alright mate, talk to you later."

Not waiting for a reply, he presses the cancel button and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. He's at the address Emma texted him that morning. Quickly, he looks at his watch. 7:55pm. Not too early to be considered over eager. Not tardy either.

He straightens his shirt (dark blue, brings out his eyes) and raises his hand to press the doorbell. He hears a noise of movement inside, then the quick patter of feet. The door swings open and he is present with the beaming face of Henry Swan.

"Hey Mr. Jones," he grins.

"Hello Henry," he responds, a little taken aback, having not considered the possibility of her son (and his student) answering the door. "Mom's just making a call for work. Wanna come in?"

With a nod, he accepts, slipping inside. Under his arm he has a bottle of white wine (he did internally debate with himself whether wine would give the wrong signal). Henry points at it and smiles. "You want me to take that?"

"Um, perhaps not, lad. Where should I…"

He looks around, a little helplessly, at the unfamiliar hallway. The clear signs of unpacking surround him; stacks of cardboard boxes with bubble packing bursting from within, piles of books and CDs mixed with photo frames and cushions.

"Sorry for the mess-"

She's suddenly there, breezy and casual in jeans and checked shirt, her hair pulled into a high ponytail.

(Yes, very attractive, he mentally notes.)

"No problem, Emma, Henry was taking very good care of me."

She gives her son a short glare, until the two start to giggle. "Alright kid, homework."

Henry pulls and face and blows a puff of air into his overhanging bangs, "Mom, it's Friday!"

"Yes, and tomorrow is Saturday and we have plans for organizing this place. So, homework now, or no movie night tomorrow."

"Fine," he grumbles under his breath and turns for the staircase. He turns back quickly, "Popcorn and ice cream?" he asks.

"We'll see," she teases as he begins to trudge up the stairs.

Silently, she takes the bottle he holds out as they listen to Henry head to his room.

"Oh, thanks…"

Raising a brow, he nods gently, "I figured if we were to work on a Friday night, we could at least enjoy a glass of wine to make it less painful."

She flashes him a pretty, sweet smile, which is all at once beguiling and breathtakingly innocent. He had figured a beautiful woman like herself would be used to a little male attention. Maybe not.

"Good idea," she whispers, quickly biting her lip, "Um, shall we go into the living room? It's just about the only room unpacked?"

Pointing at a door to his left, she leads the way into a cozy room with a large, plush sofa around a heavy oak coffee table. In front of it is a fireplace, stacked with chunky logs, though unlit. Thick blue curtains line one wall, giving the space a warm and homey feel.

"Make yourself comfortable, I'll get us some glasses."

He sits. There are two lamps lit, giving enough light to be considered bright but not garish. On the coffee table is a laptop and notepad; clearly Ms. Swan is organized.

"Sorry," she apologizes as she returns with two glass tumblers, "Haven't quite unpacked all the kitchen supplies yet."

"'S fine," he smiles, helping her place them on the table as she opens the bottle (thank God for twist off caps).

The wine glugs happily into the glasses as a silence stretches between them; the kind that exists between two people who are not yet familiar with one another, but want to be.

She slides him a glass and the two tap edges, "To a successful first meeting?" he suggests.

And, damn, she blushes. He belatedly realizes that there was a double meaning there…

"Sure," she quips with a shake of her head.

Pulling the laptop closer, she moves the paper and pen too. She's sitting about two feet from him on the sofa. She smells nice.

"So," he begins, placing his glass on one of the small cork coasters on the table, "I guess we need to start with a list, then get prices?"

"I guess," she shrugs, "I've gotta admit, I've never done anything like this before."

"Me either," he admits. "The PTA is not usually my thing."

Quickly turning her head, she asks, "What changed?"

He presses his lips together and shifts a little where he sits, "New horizons and all that - a man should always seek new challenges?"

Her laugh is sweet and melodic as she writes at the top of the pad 'Refreshments Committee', "Well I guess this is some small kind of challenge."

"And you?" he asks, leaning a tiny bit closer, "I don't like to pry but Henry gave me the impression you are quite the career woman?"

A soft sigh delays her response; the pen twirls between her fingers as she presses the power button on the laptop. "I guess I've always so busy with work that I never had time for anything else. New town, new start. You know?"

She looks at him and he's startled by her sincerity. He realizes when she talks about not having time for anything else, she means more than PTA meetings.

"Yes," he replies simply.

With a few clicks she has Google open on the screen and they are both shuffling a little closer to the edge of the couch. "Okay, now, what would a sixth grader want?"

The wine in the bottle is dwindling she feels the gentle tug of the alcohol; undoing the knots in her shoulders and loosening her lips. So far they have a two page list of snacks and drinks and are trawling their way through Target's website.

"How can there be seven different types of grape soda?" she laughs.

Killian laughs too, "I have no idea!"

They are both sat on the floor now, backs against the sofa: leaning down to the laptop having given them both a crick in their necks.

"Shall we just go for the middle priced one?" she asks, scrunching up her forehead in confusion.

"Surely grape soda is grape soda? If we buy the cheapest then we can get at least one extra case?"

This whole thing is giving her a goddamn headache (well, maybe that is the wine-). "I didn't think this would be so complicated," she sighs, leaning back and nursing her half full glass of pinot grigio.

"Aye, that's true," he agrees. There is a quiet moment as he stretches out his legs under the table. There is the sound of the TV coming from Henry's room upstairs. Other than that the only other noise is the gentle ticking of the clock hanging above the fireplace. "It's so quiet here."

"Yeah, I guess," she muses.

"My place is pretty central. Can't get away from the sound of traffic and people passing by."

"Sounds like our apartment in Philly. That was one thing I said when we moved here - we'll get a real house. With a garden."

He drains his wine and Emma picks up the bottle and tops both their drinks up until there is none left. There's a silence; a comfortable one but with something tangible to it that she can't quite place.

"So, how do you like Storybrooke?"

His question breaks the brewing tension and she is grateful: perhaps she was sharing a little too much with this guy she hardly knew. "So far, so good. Work is a little different here, but Henry is happy."

"He's a good kid."

Emma nods, taking another sip as she types 'fruit juice' in the search box. "He amazes me every day. He's far more mature than I was at his age."

She presses enter: 152 results. They both let out a soft groan.

"Kids are more adaptable than we give them credit for, love. Trust me, I'm a teacher."

She can't help but laugh. "I can't believe you used that line."

He's laughing too and rubbing his face with his hand, "What can I say? After a busy week, I descend into cliché."

The clock chimes gently. It's 10pm. How is it 10pm?

"Shit, it's late."

Glancing at him, she swears she sees a shadow of disappointment pass over his face. Maybe she was imagining it.

"I need to get Henry to bed…Sorry-"

"No apologies needed. I guess we nattered on a little too much."

And then he's standing and reaching out a hand. Without thinking, she takes it and lets him pull her up. She feels light as a feather as he lifts her to stand. Her heart begins to race a little (perhaps it _is_ the alcohol.)

They both stand a little awkwardly. Her glass is still in her hand so she bends to one side and places it on the table. "So…"

He swallows, as if he is nervous (but maybe she is reading way too much into it.) Taking a few slow breaths she glances around the room.

"To be continued?" he suggests.

"Um, yeah." She licks her lips again. She does that when she is anxious. "Next week? We don't want to be the only ones on the PTA not to complete their assignment."

"Indeed, as its newest recruits that would not look good."

"Great."

There's a sudden thump in her chest. He's just that little bit too close to be comfortable - it's too intimate. She steps back.

"I'll show you out."

The few steps to the door are quietly taken, she turns the lock and lets in a gust of chilly air when she opens it.

"The weather's turning," he observes as he steps into the doorway.

"Not long til some snow, right?"

Nodding, he pauses. "Yeah. Snow and winter go hand in hand here."

With that he holds out his hand. For a moment, she is confused.

"Goodnight?" he adds, more of a question than a statement.

Shaking herself, she smiles and takes his hand (it feels as nice as before - warm and strong and all encompassing). "Yes. Very…productive."

He laughs again. They've done a lot of that tonight, and then makes his way down the footpath to the street.

She watches him go for a second, not for long enough to seem odd. His tall, slim figure soon blends into the darkness of the night. Pressing the door shut, she turns and leans back against the lacquered wood.

Lingering in the air is the smell of his cologne. It's nice. Masculine, but not overpowering. It seems to sink beneath her skin and a warm, fuzzy sensation settles upon her and she can't help but smile.

She thinks of his gorgeous blue eyes and full lips. The tone of his voice and the quaint words he uses that reveal his heritage, even without his accent.

Yes, he was quite different from the serious, business-minded men she was used to (the ones she met at work, of course).

She drifts back to the living room to tidy their glasses away, her heart a little lighter as she lets herself enjoy the sensation of having a crush and spending an evening with a handsome man.

/

He's in the car quickly, slamming the door behind him and then grabbing the wheel with both hands. Taking some slow breaths, he settles himself. His head is a muddle; filled with the sound of her laughing and images of the way her hair glimmered in the lamp light.

He had had a far better time than anticipated. In fact, he had enjoyed himself. They had barely touched (and it was clearly not considered a date) yet it was the pleasantest couple of hours he had spent in a long time.

She was good company, her dry sense of humor and easy manner making him feel settled and comfortable, so he actually almost began to forget the real target of his attentions.

(The bet.)

It had been simple to dig a little beneath her surface. Emma gave off an impression of confidence, but perhaps that was part of her job. His presence had seemed to put her a little at odds - not in the sense that she was unhappy for him to be in her home, more that she just wasn't used to such situations.

He shakes his head as he considered how different she was to most women he met. Well, he had figured that straight away, but the more they interacted, the deeper he saw it went. Clearly, she wasn't quite aware of her own appeal. Perhaps that would work in his favor.

His body, however, was. Their few brief touches had left him more than a little frustrated. His heart is thudding, his skin temperature raised and a knot of tension is building in his gut.

Sighing, he pulls out his phone and pressed a few buttons, "Locksley," he says when the call is answered, "You still out, mate?"

/

Pressed up against the wall of The Rabbit Hole, her skin is soft and her hair blankets his face. His lips and teeth nip at her neck. The perfume she has dabbed behind her ears was cloyingly sweet and tasted bitter on his tongue.

Eager hands slip up the sides of his shirt; she digs in her nails and he grunts softly, slipping one leg between her thighs, pressing his arousal against her hip until she groans into his ear.

"I want you," she whispers and his stomach contracts, his fingers sliding into her hair.

Leaning back a little, he snatches a kiss from her, deepening it by pressing a tongue between her lips.

Her mouth is soft and warm and inviting; she pulls him closer and he feels a mild sating of his desire, the burn cools a little. He pushes his hips closer.

There's a brief parting of lips as they take a breath. His eyes are still closed and his hands slip down her back.

"Oh, Killian," she whispers.

"Emma," is his breathy response.

She pushes him back. Her face comes into focus. Not soft, golden hair, instead curly chestnut locks

"Diane," she reminds him, her eyes narrowing.

He swallows thickly then moves in for another kiss, "Aye."

_**Thank you for all your follows, favourites and reviews- it means everything to me!**_


	4. Cocktails and Conversations

_**And things start to heat up...**_

Trying hard to lose himself in the feel of her lips, he curses internally when his phone begins to vibrate in his pocket. He sighs deeply, sliding his hand from where it is residing on her hip to check it. It's Robin.

"Problem?" she asks.

_Diana? Diane…?_

He thinks for a second. He could easily blow off his friend and continue this to the inevitable… But he realizes, startlingly, that he doesn't want to.

"Aye, sorry, I-"

She simply shrugs and bends down to pick up her purse. Leaning forward she presses a damp kiss on his lips before whispering in his ear, "Another time."

Then with a wink and in a mist of over-sweet perfume, she's gone.

Killian takes a deep breath and then goes to find Robin.

/

Emma's washing the used tumblers and smiling to herself when she realizes something: that was the most relaxing night she had spent in a while. And with an adult she didn't work with, too. Now that was unusual.

Setting the glasses aside, she turns back to the living room to find her phone.

/

He finds Robin slumped against the bar, drunkenly tapping away at his phone. "Mate-" he begins.

Robin turns his head. "She won't answer her phone. She hates me."

This was the usual; the drunken declarations of self-pity when Regina refused to listen to his drunken expressions of love. Killian takes the phone from his hand and notices a garbled, half-written text message to Regina filling the screen. He quickly deletes it.

"Perhaps trying to sweet talk her when you're three sheets to the wind isn't your finest idea."

Robin flashes him a scowl and snatches back his phone. Stuffing in it back in his pocket, he ruefully stares at his half full glass of beer. Pushing it back further across the bar. "Fine," he mutters as he stands.

Just then, Killian's phone buzzes again. While Robin is settling his bill, he picks it up and swipes across the screen.

_Hey. Just wanted to say I had a great time tonight. I'd forgotten what adult company was like! Let me know when you're free to finish up. Emma._

A smile crosses his lips as he guides Robin to the exit. _I certainly shall, _he thinks.

/

And then life got in the way.

The week started well enough. A few shared texts and it had been arranged to resume their planning that Wednesday. Then Killian found out two of his classes had been cancelled due to field trips, meaning an early finish on Friday. Perfect.

Things took a turn when Henry was absent on Wednesday.

A text at lunch let him know that their plans have to be cancelled - Henry is running a fever. He frowns as he reads it, knowing that this creates a delay in his plans, but what can he do?

Thursday is a bust. His sophomore literacy class have a test and half of them flunk and then he finds out his free periods have been replaced with study hall monitoring. He's not in the best of moods when he sees Robin in the teacher's lounge.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Robin teases as Killian storms in, slamming his insulated cup on the countertop next to the coffee maker.

"Shitter of a day, Locksley," he complains, pressing the on button and waiting for a fresh pot to brew.

"Well I have something that may cheer you up."

"Oh?" Killian asks as he turns to face his friend.

Robin gives a small nod and saunters a little closer. "Guess who I saw last night?"

Turning his face into a frown, Killian sighed, "Regina."

"Yes," Robin hissed, "She has forgiven me and we are back together."

"Well, congratulations mate, but why on earth would that be good news for me?"

The coffee maker began to make soft noises as the brewing began.

"It just so happens that the love of my life is holding a cocktail party on Saturday."

Killian stared at him blankly.

"And guess who will be there?"

Then it dawned on him. Of course. Emma worked for Regina. It made sense for her to be invited to a party she was holding.

"So, what? You're inviting me?"

"Sure, Regina told me to bring a friend or two."

"But she hates me."

"Hate is a strong word Killian-"

Killian pursed his lips as he thought of his last encounter with Ms. Mills. "I believe the words 'man whore' were used on more than one occasion."

Robin pulled an annoyed face. "Look do you want to come or not?"

The coffee machine beeped and Killian pulled the jug out and poured a fresh cupful. He turned and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "And anyway, why would you want to help me? We have a bet-"

"Call it being in a good mood. Or perhaps a confident feeling that no matter how hard you try, this woman will not end up being another notch on your bedpost."

Smirking, Killian added a sachet of sweetener to his drink and then stirred it thoughtfully. This wasn't in his original game plan, but a whole evening with free flowing alcohol certainly seemed like a positive development. "Fine," he nods before taking a sip. Too bitter. He picks up another sweet 'n' lo. "If only to prove you wrong. By the end of the night, I will have Ms. Swan eating out of the palm of my hand."

Robin raises his brows and gives a small nod, "We'll see."

/

It had taken a lot of convincing to get her to agree to go.

Sure, Henry was improving and finally returning to normal, but she still wasn't comfortable with the idea of leaving him, even with a babysitter. Regina had been quite persuasive, offering the services of a family friend as babysitter and also arranging for her driver to pick her up.

In the end, she had left it up to him.

"Mom," he groans over his cereal that morning when she asks him. "I'm not a baby. Go out. Have fun."

"You sure?" she asks, her face crumpling in uncertainty.

"Yes," he insists. "You deserve it. I told you mom, I want you to be happy here. Just like you want me to be."

And she couldn't resist pressing a kiss onto his cheek.

He didn't resist that much.

/

It wasn't like he hated Regina Mills. It was more of a mutual dislike that had been brewing for the entirety of her involvement with Robin (currently two years, on and off). Things had started off well enough, until he had slept with her secretary and from there on he had been branded as the worst of all men.

A little harsh, he thought.

Never had he made promises to a woman. Never had he insinuated that a dalliance with Killian Jones would ever be anything more that. He liked his freedom too much. When he had moved to Storybrooke five years earlier, he had promised himself not to get tied down; not to commit to anything. Because he knew, deep down, he wasn't ready and frankly anything else would have been the true crime against women. But of course, Regina didn't see it like that.

He had insisting on arriving with Robin, convinced he would have been tossed out onto the curb had he rolled up to her mansion on the outskirts of town alone.

It was just past seven when they arrived. Leaving their coats with the door attendant, they were ushered towards the billiards room and patio where the party would take place.

"Robin," Regina greets them with a smile. It quickly drops when she sees who is by my side. "What's _he_ doing here?"

"He's my best friend," Robin explains.

"Who has slept with half the town."

"Now that's a _slight _exaggeration-" Killian insists until she shoots him a cold look and he pauses.

Robin slips his arms around her waist and pulls her closer. Killian keeps his distance, always amused by the way his friend can turn the local ice queen into a girly mess.

She's smiling and Robin is whispering into her ear. Then they are kissing. Killian looks aside, feeling ever so slightly awkward. He hears Regina's name called and watches as she pulls herself away and dashes towards the kitchen.

Robin's cheeks are flushed when he turns around. "Sorted."

"Indeed," Killian snips, "You seem to have some kind of hold over that woman I will never understand." _Or what you see in her, _he thinks.

"Let's just say a few small promises for later go a long way-"

"Mate," Killian begins, pressing his eyes shut, "For once, I don't want to hear all the gory details of your sex life." Robin shrugs and laughs lightly. "Come on, time for drinks."

/

No sooner is she inside than Regina is greeting her, pressing a glass of champagne in her hand.

"Oh, thank you," she mumbles as she shrugs off her wrap and follows her boss further into the house.

It's busy already: she's a little late after having a crisis of confidence in what to wear, finally settling on a simple black sheath with a boat neckline, that narrowed towards her knees, with a hint of flesh revealed by a daring slit up one thigh.

She's self conscious as Regina introduces her to more people than names she can remember. She chews on her lip, stopping when she remembers her dark pink lip gloss, shakes many hands and finally feels so overwhelmed; it must have shown on her face.

"Oh I'm sorry," Regina apologizes, "I've not given you a moment to catch your breath." The other woman shakes her head, "I'm just so eager for you to meet everyone."

"And I am grateful. Really. The hardest thing about being in a new town is making connections."

Regina smiles, her red stained lips highlighting her perfect cupids bow, "Well I'm sure that won't be a problem for long. Storybrooke is a small town, pretty old fashioned too. Give it a few months and you'll know everyone."

Emma didn't know whether that frightened or excited her, but her thoughts were interrupted when a waiter holding an empty platter tapped her boss on the shoulder and whispered in her ear.

"Catering emergency. Hey, go look around, the gardens are well lit, the library is open… My house is your house."

Nodding, Emma finishes her champagne in one gulp. Her heart is thudding just a little with nerves and she's self conscious in the tightly fitting dress. "Time for another," she mutters to herself as she heads towards the bar set up in one corner.

/

The rum is sweet and coats his mouth lovingly as he swirls it over his tongue.

It's going to his head, just a little, but that's fine. A slight alcohol buzz relaxes him just the right amount. And he's feeling pretty relaxed right now.

"Another?" Robin asks, raising his empty glass. Killian nods and leans against the billiards table as Robin saunters off to find a waiter. The room is filling up now. Men in suits and women in fancy cocktail dresses. He checks his watch: eight pm. He hasn't seen her yet, but tells himself this is fine. It's not like he's going to wander around on a search for her. Not yet, anyway.

And of course when he is thinking of her, that's when he spots Emma Swan. She's with Regina. Her back is to him and her tumbling hair is almost reaching her waist. He briefly thinks about what it would feel like to have her tresses wrapped around his hand.

She's turning and he steps back a little into the shadows of the room. It feels a little voyeuristic, watching her like this, but he settles his mind by calling it research. He licks his lips as she moves around the room. Her dress is tight, but not too tight - leaving a little to the imagination. Frustratingly it covers her from neck to knee. His gut contracts, wanting to see more flesh, his usual instincts kicking in. Women mean sex. No strings, just fleeting moments between soft cotton sheets. He imagines her lain out on his bed, naked and purring for him.

He's glad when Robin arrives with another drink.

"It seems the lovely lady herself has arrived," he smiles, handing Killian a glass filled with two finger's of dark rum, "And may I say, up close she is pretty damn hot."

Killian flashes him an annoyed glance. Why does it bother him, his friend calling her attractive?

"And you are currently taken so she is off limits."

Robin raises his hands in mock surrender, "Alright mate, keep your pants on. Just thinking, I'd say it makes the bet a little easier."

"You could say that," Killian replies, taking a swig, letting it burn his throat, knocking some sense into him.

_Because that tasted a little like jealousy, Jones, _he told himself.

"So aren't you going to say hi? Put on some of that famous British charm?"

"Not quite yet," he insists, licking his lips, "The night is young, after all."

/

It's nine and she's already tipsy. It was only on the third glass that she realized the champagne was actually a champagne cocktail with a shot of vodka included. Of course, she mused, cocktail party, not champagne party.

Her skin was buzzing hot with the alcohol and the accumulating body heat about her. There must be over 100 people there already and Regina had introduced her to at least half. With each one she had tried to take a mental snapshot of their name and face, but she knew it was pointless. That kind of recall had never been her forte.

She takes a fresh glass from a waiter who passes by, pressing it to her forehead and letting the light condensation cool her forehead as she sucks in deep breaths to cool her body from within. She needs cooler air.

Regina has left her again to mingle with a few local clients. Wandering back into the hallway that leads to the door, she sees the library, or more correctly smells it: the scent of leather bound volumes and aged sheets of paper.

Slipping inside, she admires the tall shelves full of books. It's the kind of library you'd see in a movie: all old, noble volumes of books: no chick lit or Dan Brown to be sure.

Champagne glass in hand, she runs her fingers along the spines lined on one shelf. Copies of every Shakespeare play and collection of sonnets: aged but gracefully so, with majestic golden lettering and covers in a regal shade of burgundy. Her fingers stop at Twelfth Night. Dipping her finger into the top rim of the spine, she pulls it forward and into her palm, allowing it to fall open. Her eyes flicker over the chosen page.

_VIOLA: There is a fair behavior in thee, captain;_

_And though that nature with a beauteous wall_

_Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee_

_I will believe thou hast a mind that suits_

_With this thy fair and outward character_

"Emma?"

With a start, she slams the book closed, her head cocking towards the source of the noise. She swallows hard when she sees the origin. Mr. Jones._ Killian _Jones.

Momentarily she is dumbstruck, her quiet interlude interrupted. Her mouth drops open and she blushes when she registers how damn handsome he looks in his white shirt, open a few buttons, and charcoal grey suit.

"Mr. Jones?" she finally manages, placing the book on a nearby table and taking a step closer to him.

"Guilty," he replies, cheekily raising a brow which makes he smile in spite of herself.

"Um, what, um, I mean, why- um- you know Regina?"

She creases her brow in confusion and the words she speaks come out in a tumble, tripping over one another as they battle with her tongue for dominance.

The cocktails have a lot to answer for.

"In a way. She's dating a friend."

"Oh," she replies, her lips staying paralysed in the 'O' shape. In the half lit room she remembers how sharp his jaw is and the way his stubble makes it even more obvious. He could cut glass with that jawline. She shakes herself.

"Yeah, well she's my boss-"

"I know," he nods. Of course he does. She feels a moment of awkwardness. The noise of the party seems far away and the library feels way too small. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Yeah," she admits, shaking her head, "Well, maybe a little overwhelmed."

"Regina's parties have a way of making you feel like that. At least the first time." He flashes her a wide toothed smile and she feels a little jump in her chest. He's too smooth, too likeable.

And she likes it.

"Well, I suppose I did come to this town for new experiences…"

Kindly, he laughs. Surely he can hear the nerves in her voice.

She's twirling the glass of champagne in her hands, the stem between her fingers when he closes the gap between them. He has a tumbler of something dark and strong looking in his hands, which he reaches out towards her.

"To new experiences," he whispers.

For a moment, she stares. His face sincere, they meet eyes for a split second. Her cheeks color even more than they had in the other room and she looks down.

She taps her glass to his. "To new experiences," she echoes.

_Damn, it's too hot in here, _she thinks to herself, letting out a breath up towards her forehead.

"Have you been outside?" he suddenly asks.

For a second, she fumbles for a response. No she hasn't, but his question seems to imply more-

"The gardens are spectacular," he continues.

"I haven't," she finally manages.

"Care to take a look?" he askes.

And she finds herself saying yes.

/

She looked so flustered when he happened upon her that it was almost endearing.

He'd seen her slip away and decided that it was now or never. He didn't fancy the idea of her perhaps getting drunk before they talked. He may love women, but only women who showed an interest and were able to tell him so.

He'd suggested going outside on a whim. The library opened out onto a private patio (which he may have used before…) and as soon as she had said yes he was walking towards the glazed oak doors and pushing them open.

The air outside was chilled but scented with autumn flowers and the leaves of perennial trees. The grey-stone patio was swept clean and edged with a wall of columns from which they could look out on to the garden.

"It's so pretty," she sighed as she looked out across the garden, lit as it was with pretty little lights in the trees and interspersed street lamps along the paths that meandered into the distance.

"Being a millionaire has it's perks, I'd say," he agreed, folding his arms and leaning over the wall. He took a few sweet, deep breaths. This part of town was quiet. The party was off to their right. He could just see the other patio that the guests were spilling out onto; the sound of soft jazz filled the air.

"And it's minuses," she added, joining him at the wall, her glass of champagne dangling in her overhanging fingers. "I'd hate to be that rich. It's too much."

"Yeah?" he asks in surprise.

"Yeah," she smiles, tilting her head towards him and flashing a smile. "I guess money helps, but for me, all I want is happiness."

He stares out over the illuminated gardens as they both take a drink. Despite the party sounds it feels surprisingly secluded. His body relaxes, defenses down, as he digests her words.

"Happiness is a good goal," he finally replies.

"Yeah?" she asks. "What will make you happy then, Mr. Jones?"

_Good question, _he thinks, as he swipes his tongue around his mouth, drinking in the thick, rum flavour as he shifts on his feet.

To be honest, he'd never really thought about it. Living for the moment had been his _thing. _Sex was sex. Work was work. Friends were… a necessary evil. Thinking forward, thinking happy, had never really occurred to him.

He flashes her a glance, his eyes serious, his lids dipped. "I don't know," he admits.

And he may be overstating this, but he swears he sees a flickering of something over her face.

It's getting a little too raw. She's digging a little too deep. And the normal, regular Killian would turn on the charm and change the subject. But for some reason, he can't.

"Well," she smiles, "Maybe you need to think about that?"

/

She's being way too flirty.

This is her son's teacher, for Christ's sake!

She's laying against the wall edging the patio, the cool air removing her fever while at the same time igniting the flame of alcohol inside her.

She hated how fresh air did that.

He was staring at the garden. His profile in relief against the dark background. The turn of his countenance seems strained. She was a little confused and even more intrigued.

"I'm sorry if I pried-" she began.

But in a second he was beside her, his hands on either side of her body as she lay back, breathless.

"No apologies needed, Miss Swan."

His gaze was goddamn devastating. His gorgeous blue eyes were dancing over her face and she felt weak and strong all at once.

"O-okay," she stuttered, fixing her eyes on his gaze on her full lips. God they were pretty. She bet they tasted like honey.

A crackle of electricity seemed to flow between them. Her hips pressed forward involuntarily. His eyes glanced over her body, and her breath caught.

The air was thick with wanting and she felt an internal conflict brewing that was quickly overridden by more urgent sensation.

Tilting her head back, she looked down at him through her nose. One leg slipped behind his, hooking it close until his chest fell against hers and he let out a soft groan. She licked her lips, looking deep into his eyes, seeing it he wanted the same, seeing only a mist of confusion and a lustful glare.

"Emma-"he begins.

But words would break the moment.

So she kisses him.

Cupping his head with one hand, the other around his waist tugging his firm body flush with hers: not caring of the consequences.

He kisses her irreverently. All tongue and stubble branding her cheeks as his hands circle her waist and their bodies press together just enough that she can feel how much he wants her.

God. She's been out of the game so long she's not sure if she should play coy or go with it. The alcohol wins and she's rocking her hips into his. Shit. She hears the slit of her dress tear.

/

She lays back over the wall and he thanks whatever god has brought him to this moment. Every kiss is a combination of pleasure and abject pain: knowing he needs more, but knowing it's not the time.

His fingers slide under her dress.

Emma gasps when he grabs her ass. He takes her bottom lip in his teeth and teases it before pulling tight.

"Damnit," he whispers. Not sure what he is feeling. Knowing he doesn't want it to stop.

_**Reviews are my soul's food.**_


	5. Retail Therapy

It's the shattering of glass that tears them apart.

The forgotten glass of champagne hits the patio, falling from where it has been abandoned on the wall. He steps back, startled, his hand quickly moving to his lips.

Her mouth is kiss swollen and her hair tangled from where he had twisted his fingers between the strands. She's looking downwards, avoiding his gaze.

Does she regret it?

But he can't think clearly because he's a little drunk - from the rum, the atmosphere,_ from her. _He can almost still feel her body pressed against his.

He watches, a little dumbstruck, as she fingers the material of her skirt - it's torn a little along the slit.

"Sorry about that-"

The apology is weak. He's not really sorry. The whole damn thing would have been torn off her if he'd let the burning urges inside him take over.

"It's fine," she whispers, shaking her head, still not looking at him.

She's running her fingers through her hair. He steps back a little, giving her some space.

(But what he really wants is to capture her lips again with his, taste her honey sweetness and feel the way her body responds to his touch.)

Smoothing down her dress, she looks off into the distance. "This isn't something I normally do-"

His heart sinks a little. She does regret it.

"We've both had a few drinks," he concedes quietly.

"Yeah," she nods, finally flashing him an uncertain glance. "I can't believe I just did that."

And he's disappointed.

Of course, the bet had taken a blow, but it's not because of that.

"Say no more, let's chalk it up to too many drinks and a view."

The smile he gives her does not reach his eyes, but her expression softens and she seems grateful. "Good. I mean, thank you."

It's awkward, of course, the two of them standing on the empty patio, his heart still pounding from the adrenaline rush kissing her had provided.

"Maybe we should…" she gestures to the door.

"Go ahead, I'll just be a minute."

And with a silent nod, she's gone.

/

With trembling limbs, she quickly walks back toward the party, self-consciously tugging at her dress as she moves whilst trying to smooth her hair with the other hand.

Stepping back into the throng, she wonders if anyone can tell what she has been up to. She banishes the thought with a shake of her head. It was a silly, drunken moment, she tells herself, let it go. Don't make things awkward. (Though she has to admit she feels pretty damn awkward as she checks the room for signs he has returned).

She finds a restroom and bolts the door. Digging out her compact, she checks her makeup. Her face is flushed but a little powder fixes that. Then with a slick of gloss, she's looking presentable. She inspects the tear in her dress - it's small, not too noticeable. She tells herself not to think about it.

Regina finds her just in time before her introspection reaches fever pitch. For once she's thankful to be introduced to a dozen new faces, to be the subject of a hundred questions; it means she doesn't have time to think about the way his lips felt, or how wonderful his body pressed against hers was, or how she didn't really regret it at all-

But, she conceded, as the clock struck ten and she thought she really ought to be getting home, she knew her crush needed to remain just that. She couldn't really get involved with her son's teacher - could she?

/

He sulks around the library for a while, flicking through a few books, finishing his rum. When he finally feels ready, he returns to the party. She's there, across the room, amidst a group of people he didn't know. Her cheeks have lost the flush from earlier and she seems altogether more composed.

It's almost like it never happened.

But it did. He's stored the memory of the moment in his mind and replays it as he looks for Robin. Briefly, he considers telling him - gloating in his small victory.

He decides not to.

/

The night ended innocuously enough. He lost sight of Emma sometime after ten. Of course she must have left - she had Henry to think of. Still, he was a little disappointed that they hadn't crossed paths again that evening.

Maybe he'd call her tomorrow. If that wouldn't be too awkward.

The guests had dwindled as midnight approached, until only a handful of partiers were left.

Regina and Robin had disappeared, leaving him to be the last man standing at the bar. It both amused him and annoyed him that they seemed determined to play out their relationship as some sort of secret affair. He wishes they would just come out as a couple in public and be done with it.

People confused him sometimes. _Most_ of the time. Perhaps this was why Robin was his only semblance to a close friend in this town. Perhaps this was why he preferred his own company.

As the final drops of rum rolled down his throat he sat alone at the bar thinking.

Thinking way too much.

/

Shopping list in one hand, Costco card in the other, she's waiting for him by the giant sliding glass doors.

She'd put off today for as long as possible, but tomorrow is the dance and she can't avoid him forever. In fact, she feels immature and childish already - after insisting she was busy all week and that they would need to finish their plans via email. She'd even avoided going to the PTA meeting that week.

That's right, good old Emma Swan, hiding when things get awkward.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees him. He's wearing a dark blue plaid shirt and jeans. Damn he looks good in jeans. She blushes as the thought passes over her.

Preparing her face in an open smile, she waves until he notices her. It takes a deep breath to still her nerves. Will he say something? God she hopes he doesn't. She still blushes at the memory of her behavior.

_And his. It was him too, _a small voice reminds her.

"Hi," he smiles and all at once she relaxes. He's got a great smile.

"You ready to shop it up?"

"Of course, I _love _shopping." His voice drips of sarcasm and the laughter she responds with is real and light.

He grabs a cart as they enter. "So what's up first?"

She glances down at the neatly typed list. "Soda," she replies, "Lots of soda."

Between them, they wrestle a dozen cases into the cart. He tries to help her with hers, but she can manage - she senses a little admiration for her strength. Most guys seemed to find it a little intimidating, but weekly yoga for five years has its benefits.

By the time they're perusing the chips and dips, the conversation is flowing easily. He asks polite questions about her job, she inquires about the town. Easy stuff. It's unnervingly civil.

"Cake next," she sighs as she looks at the mountain of tortilla chips. She wonders for a moment how this will all fit in her rental.

"You okay?" he asks unexpectedly. For the first time that afternoon their eyes meet properly. His are so, so blue.

"Yeah," she insists with a shake of her head, "Just wondering how we are going to fit all this in my rental."

"Well I have an SUV. It should all fit in there." He's scratching behind his ear for a second, like he's pondering something. "Maybe tomorrow I can pick you up and we can set up together? Save on gas?"

She finds herself nodding, because that does make sense. If everything is in his car then it makes perfect sense.

"Okay," she smiles as she picks up a chocolate fudge cake, mentally judging the size of a slice, "That sounds like a good plan."

"Great," he quips, before he switches his attention to the rows of baked goods.

_Great, _she thinks, suddenly a little nervous.

/

The trunk is packed and they are saying goodbye.

She hasn't mentioned the kiss. Did he expect her to? He wasn't sure.

The hour they had been at the store had flowed so quickly it seemed no sooner had he parked that he was putting the empty cart back while she waited by his car.

"So that's that," he smiles, dangling his keys from his finger.

"I guess so," she replies. Her hair is in a braid laid over her left shoulder. She's playing with the hair tie and it's pretty endearing. Coy, almost.

"I-" he begins but he's quickly cut off.

"About the other night-"

She mentioned it.

"Yes…" he sighs, trying to gauge what she is going to say.

"I don't want things to be awkward, you know?" She shrugs and looks up at him. "I mean you're Henry's teacher, and we're on the PTA together and I should _not _drink _that _much vodka-"

"Hey," he hushes, his hands automatically going to her shoulders. She stops immediately. "I should be the one apologizing. That was… not cool."

And the weird thing is - it's the truth. As much as he enjoyed it (and he _really_ enjoyed it) the whole situation had been off - too much alcohol, too little understanding between the two of them…

"So we can move on?" she asks with narrowed eyes. He nods, releasing his grip and stepping back a little awkwardly.

"Great." Emma holds out her hand and he takes it. She gives his a firm shake. "Back to business."

"Exactly," he replies, meaning more than just the dance. "How about I swing by your place at six tomorrow - is that okay?"

"Sure," she smiles, "Can't wait." She stops herself and seems to think better of her turn of phrase. "I mean I'm really looking forward to the dance and seeing all the kids happy and, you know, helping out the school…"

To save her further embarrassment, he softly says, "Goodnight," and turns to get into the car. He watches her walk away in the rear view mirror. She turns back for a second and waves.

Looking at his reflection he catches himself grinning, startled by his own goofy expression he quickly turns the key in the ignition.

_Get a grip, Jones, _he warns himself as he pulls away.

_/_

Her hands are on the steering wheel and the engine gently purrs. She's been sat like that for almost ten minutes.

After watching him drive away, she'd dawdled back to her car.

She'd been waiting for him to bring up the kiss - he seemed like the type who would. But he hadn't and the tense feeling inside her had grown. While they were stacking boxes in his trunk, it became unbearable. He was too close to her - his cologne was the same as that night and it brought all the memories crashing back.

(Details like the texture of his hair and the light calluses on his hand she'd felt when he cupped her ass-)

And it had all burst forth in a wall of words. She was babbling. She did that when she as nervous.

She tightened her fingers on the leather until her knuckled started to turn white. Why did she feel so wretched? Why was she feeling so flat and vexed and-

But she knew why.

Gently, she placed her head on the steering wheel and crinkled her forehead.

"I have a thing for my son's teacher," she whispered to herself, groaning at the realisation. Not just a crush - a thing. A thing where an attraction had grown and now she felt her body humming a little when he was near and it was nice and she knew where this kind of feeling usually led-

She wasn't exactly sure what all this meant, but she knew sure as hell that it made things awkward. Especially now he'd made it clear that he thought it was a mistake that they'd kissed.

Lying back in her chair, she took a deep breath. So, he was handsome, just a little charming, funny and a great kisser. A really, really great kisser. It was unfair really.

As she released the parking break, she told herself that she could handle this. She could hide her 'thing' for Killian Jones. She could be professional, cordial… Urgh, she didn't know the word to use. But she could be it.

Because it's not like she had any other choice.

_**Reviews are appreciated and the only way I know what you guys think!**_


	6. Homecoming

"Hey, Mr. Jones!"

It's Henry who opens the door. Killian gives him his best teacher smile as he looks cautiously over his shoulder.

"You ready, Mom?"

Henry's voice is shrill and still pretty high pitched, as Killian winces. Suddenly she is there, tugging on a jacket while simultaneously fastening an earring. "Just a second," she calls. She has her back to the two. Killian quickly looks over her outfit, a grey pencil skirt and a pale pink silk blouse topped by black wool coat nipped in at the waist. Very pretty, if conservative, he thinks.

Then she turns and catches his eye. She gives him a cautious smile which he returns alongside a raise of his hand. "Get your coat, Henry," she orders as she approaches the door. "Is it okay if he rides with us?"

"Of course," Killian replies, though he hadn't really thought about Henry needing transport before. No opportunity for anything to happen on the drive, then.

They pile into the black SUV and seat belts are fastened. Killian flashes Henry a smile in the mirror, "Ready?" he asks.

"Sure, Mr. Jones," Henry replies, tugging his phone out of his pocket as Killian pulls away. The car descends into silence.

"It's Minecraft," Emma explains after a few minutes. At first Killian frowns, then realizes she is talking about the game Henry is playing.

"Oh," he nods, "Yeah, that's what they're all crazy about, right?"

"This month," Emma sighs, resting her elbow against the window and watching the street outside. It's almost dark now and the street lamps are lit. A light mist of rain starts to fall and coats the windscreen in a blurry layer of water.

"Kids, huh?" he adds, immediately feeling like that was a dumb comment. He taught kids, but it's not like he had one of his own. Emma turned and nods, a soft look on her face as she replies.

"Yeah, kids."

/

An uneventful journey ends with the excitement of unpacking the car as the rain began to fall. Each of the three took turns hauling boxes and cases of goods into the gym as they gradually became more and more drenched by the increasing rain.

Finally they finished, running inside and peeling off their drenched outer layers.

The drive had been a little awkward. She'd felt self-conscious with Henry in the car with them, convinced he would pick up on some sort of residual energy (or her attraction to his teacher) so she'd remained tight lipped and concentrated on watching the streets of Storybrooke pass by the car window.

"You're drenched," he points out as she shakes out her wool coat. Rain marks run down her light grey skirt but she is thankful her blouse had been saved by the jacket. She turns and looks up at him through her lashes.

He was one to talk. His own thin coat had provided little cover and his pinstriped shirt is soaked down the front and his hair is slick against his forehead, a couple of streams of water running down his cheeks. "So are you," she scoffs, smiling in spite of herself.

He turns and catches sight of his reflection in one of the tall windows that run down the length of the gym. "Ah, yes-" he agrees, quickly running his fingers through his sodden hair.

Just then, they are joined by Miss Blanchard. "Guys! You made it. The storm coming in had us all worried."

"Is the dance still going ahead?" Emma asks, a little worried that all their efforts would be wasted.

"Of course, most of the students will be brought by an adult so we aren't worried about their safety. But I am watching that roof," she points up at the high, vaulted ceiling, "Three years ago it leaked, and we had to replace the whole gym floor. The damn thing is just poorly constructed!"

Emma nods, not overly interested in the architectural design problems, but Mary Margaret seems a sweet woman so she tries to look concerned.

"So where are we to set up, love?" Killian interjects. Emma freezes, feeling him come up behind her. He still must be a foot away but she is so aware of his presence she feels a burn drive up the back of her neck and a layer of sweat rises on her forehead.

"Just here," Mary Margaret replies and begins to walk over to a long, crepe paper covered table on the other side of the hall. She's glad when he follows her; closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. (And not looking at his ass. No, of course not…). "We've got a half hour before the doors open, is that enough time?"

By now, Emma had caught up with the other two. She and Killian exchange shrugs. Surely it can't be that hard to put out some soda and chips? "Sure," Emma insists and Mary Margaret beams in reply.

"Great, well I'll leave you two to it!"

/

Henry occupies himself looking through the DJ's playlist and it's left to Killian and Emma to unpack. It doesn't take long, and soon the table was full with the spare goods stashed beneath. Killian begins to stack cans of cola into a pyramid as Emma sets out the dips.

"I bet you played with Legos."

"Hmm?" he asks, turning his head in her directions as he finished the precarious, penultimate layer.

"As a kid," she adds, scooping salsa into a colorful plastic dish. "You know, building stuff."

He frowns for a second before a memory of building a brightly colored fort emerges. "My brother liked Legos," he sighed.

"You have a brother?" she asks, and he catches himself. Shit. He never talked about Liam.

"I did. He died," he replies quickly, trying to focus on adding the final can to the stack.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry-"

"It's fine," he insists, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "It was a long time ago."

She gets the message and backs away.

That was the first time he had mentioned his brother to anyone in the town since moving to Storybrooke. As far as his fellow residents were concerned, he had no past; well, not one of any interest. He liked it that way, he could be whoever he wanted to be without the burden of ad history.

There's the sound of a door opening and then the DJ is doing a sound test.

"Looks like we're in business," Emma says.

He's glad she didn't pry any further.

/

Three hundred middle school children are certainly demanding. Emma thinks her feet barely stopped moving for the first hour - refreshing buckets of ice and bowls of chips as hungry faces devoured everything in sight. She barely has time to talk to Killian. They merely coordinate their actions, taking one side of the table each to monitor. She thinks she catches him looking her way on a few occasions but she shakes her head to clear it of that notion. He'd made it clear the night before that their relationship was strictly professional.

There was half an hour to go when she finally gets a break. Most of the kids were dancing now - the DJ playing the latest chart topper - so she grabs a Diet Coke and takes a moment to step back into the darkened edge of the room.

She takes a few sips and tried to ignore the thumping music, closing her eyes and laying back against the cool wall to ease her tired muscles. It had been a long day.

"Finally, a moment to relax."

His words make her instantly smile. "Yes," she sighs in reply, turning her head in his direction, "I hadn't realized how hard work this would be."

"Never underestimate how demanding middle schoolers are." He smirks and looks across the room as he takes a sip of his 7Up.

"I think I have a new found respect for teachers," she quips, crossing her ankles as she lies back a little more against the wall. The coolness is soothing the ache between her shoulders but she still winces at the contact.

"You all right?" he asks.

She stretches her back and stands a little taller, placing one hand at her waist, "Not used to manual labor, there isn't a lot of box carrying in the security business."

"I could have helped more-"

She stops him with a wave of her hands. "Really, it's fine." Catching his eye, she feels a shudder of attraction run down her spine. There's a pause of a second as the two just watch each other. Emma thinks he is going to say something.

"Mom!"

Jumping a little at the unexpected intrusion, she smiles when she sees Henry. His face is flushed and his hair messy and damp. "You look like you've been having fun, kid!"

He grins and grabs a can of soda from the table behind. "I am! Guess what - Adam has asked if I can come sleep over at his house tonight."

Quickly Emma scans her memory- "Adam who you have math with?"

Henry nods enthusiastically, "Yeah. So can I?"

His face is full of expectation. Emma frowns a little. "I'm not sure Henry - I haven't met this boy yet. Or his mom-"

"Please!" he begs, giving her his best puppy dog look, "He has a new Xbox and he's promised to show me his Dr. Who collection-"

Her son is looking so happy that Emma can't bring herself to say no. She figures this is him making new friends and she should encourage it.

"Okay," she agrees, with a quick nod, "But I want to meet his mom when she picks him up. And I need their address and telephone number."

"Yes!" Henry cries with a quick fist pump, "You're the best!" he calls as he dashes back across the gym. He looks so tall amidst the other kids and her heart aches a little. He's getting so big, it won't be long until he doesn't need her anymore.

The melancholy feeling lasts until she hears the grumbles of a kid complaining about an empty bowl of tortilla chips. Smiling wryly, she grabs a bag from under the table and refills.

/

There had barely been the chance to talk. It's not awkward, exactly, but he's trying to read her body language towards him with little success.

He has to admit he's confused as hell.

She said it was a mistake. She said she wanted to forget it happened.

(How she could ever forget _that _kiss, he didn't know…)

So why did he feel the tension between them was a strong as ever? Why, even though they barely spoke, could he feel her presence as she moved around the room? It was like an invisible band between them was being turned and tightened, stretching until it would reach some unknown tipping point and then-

Well, he wasn't sure what would happen then.

The dance had wound down, until the lights had been switched back on and the kids slowly began to dissipate. Emma disappeared with her son, so he began to pack up the unused items alone. He'd overheard her conversation with Henry earlier. So it would be just the two of them driving back. The information gnaws at his gut.

He's tossing out stale potato chips when she returns. Her hair is a little damp again from the rain outside. Immediately, she picks up a bowl and begins to help.

"Henry's staying at a friend's tonight," she tells him.

"Oh," he replies, feigning ignorance, as he holds open the garbage bag. "He's making new friends easily, then?"

"I guess," she shrugs, "Kids find this whole new start thing easier than us grownups - right?"

She looks up and he catches the uncertain expression on her face. She's biting her lip and frowning slightly.

"Change is hard. Trust me, I moved here five years ago and sometimes I still feel like a stranger in this town."

"Really?"

He nods as he ties the top of the bag in a knot. "Sure. I mean I've made a few good friends. Really good friends- but it's hard work. People aren't always as open to the new as they get older."

She looks a little sadly at the floor as he talks. Is she lonely? He'd not really thought about how she must be feeling - new town, new job - and of all people, surely he was the one to understand that best. "I bet you met a lot of new people at the party?" There's an extended pause as he mentions that night again.

When she replies, he's moved over to the pile of empty cans and is sorting them for recycling. He flattens each one with his palm. It's soothing. He feels a little of the strange tension in his shoulders flittering away.

"Some," is her measured response as she comes over to help him, "I guess I just need to find the time to socialize a little more with non-work people. Get that distance between work and home, you know?"

He nods, but to be honest, he doesn't know. His closest friend is Robin and they work in the same school. Other friends are made up from a combination of a few faculty members and some guys he plays basketball with some weekends. "That sounds like a good plan."

Again, things become quiet between the two.

The DJ is dismantling his equipment now and all the kids have left. A few other PTA members are still milling around, taking down the banners and bunting that surround the hall, but it's pretty quiet.

Soon the sounds around them dwindle. There's a stack of trash bags lined against the wall. Emma is talking to Miss Blanchard as Killian places the last full cans of soda back in the crate. Slowly he walks over to the door, looking back across the room at where she and the teacher are standing. Emma is smiling and then Mary Margaret gives her a hug. He feels a little at a loose end, waiting and watching. He wants to leave, go home, think…

"You ready?" she calls out at him.

He nods and lifts up the car keys that he has in his hand. "Whenever you are."

A minute later they are walking outside. The parking lot is dark; lit only by a few floodlights which spill yellowing light onto the dark asphalt. Thankfully, the rain has ended, but it has left behind a slick dampness that permeates the air and catches in the back of his throat.

He coughs lightly as he opens the car, sliding in without a word as she follows into the passenger seat. He places the key in the lock and takes a deep breath.

"Are you okay Mr. Jones?" she asks unexpectedly.

"Sure," he replies, with a shrug, "Why?"

She slips her purse from her shoulder to her lap before slipping her hair over her shoulder. "I just-" she flashes him a look, "You just seem a little tense."

"I'm fine," he lied, pulling out his seatbelt and fastening it, "And please call me Killian. Mr. Jones seems so… formal."

"Okay, Killian-" she huffs, pulling on her own seatbelt.

He makes no move to turn on the ignition. He wants to say something to her, but he's not sure what.

She beats him to it. "Why is this so awkward?"

Silently he runs his fingers over the outer edge of the steering wheel. "Honestly?" he asks, "I don't know. This is not how I want things to be."

"Yeah, cos your Henry's teacher and we're both on the PTA-"

He shifts quickly in his seat so he's now looking at her. "No, that's not what I mean."

"Oh - so what then?" She turns a little to face him, tugging at the seatbelt as she does, her expression is open and expectant.

It's only an instant and he's struck by how attractive she is. Her even features, her tumbling hair, her simple, straightforward way of speaking to him. It was so refreshing after years of women picked up in bars: women with whom he liked to play games. He didn't want that with her.

"You're beautiful, you know that?"

"What?"

_Shit, _he thinks, _maybe I shouldn't have said that._

"Um, I'm sorry-"

"Don't apologize."

She reaches out and places her hand on his arm. It's a soft, gentle touch, and she's smiling. "I mean, thank you. It's been a while since I've had a compliment. Well, from someone other than my son."

His eyes linger where she is touching him. It's not intimate, as such, but a step more than what he would expect. He's momentarily startled.

"Well that's a tragedy."

And for once he isn't trying to be smooth. It simply slips from his tongue as naturally as breathing. He waits for her to react but instead she is quiet, her eyes lowering, her lower lip dipping to open her mouth.

/

Her hand is still on his arm. She thinks she should move it but at the same time it feels kind of nice.

"Maybe we should be on our way…"

"Maybe," she whispers.

Sure, it's reckless and stupid, but right then she feels something between them. Kissing him seems like a ridiculous idea: they'd tried that and decided it was wrong - right? There were a thousand and one reasons why she should release her grip and just smile like nothing was going through her mind.

A quick flick of her tongue dampens her lips. She's frozen in place, a little uncertain, a little scared.

She'd told him it was a mistake. She'd told him that and he'd agreed-

A memory of the feel of his lips upon hers washed over her. Even in the haze of alcohol it had been electric. He'd fit to her so well, held her so close that she'd been almost breathless- She couldn't deny the urge inside to feel that way again, to see if her memories were true.

They're still touching and she's acutely aware that the seconds are ticking by and neither is moving. She worries for a second that she's giving mixed signals. That's the last thing she wants; it's not her style at all.

"Killian-" she whispers, her hand slipping up his arm, resting at the crook of his elbow as she takes a deep breath.

A light goes out. She looks at the clock on the dash - it's almost nine thirty. The frown that crosses her face is one of confusion. Quickly she realizes that the streetlamp nearest the car has gone out. The amber light is replaced with greyed darkness. It's oddly intimate.

Her fingers tighten, and before she realizes, she's pulling him closer. His body is heavy and reluctant at first and she almost stops, but in a few seconds he's moving with her, reaching out his own hand to unhook his seatbelt, hesitating only a second before he's leaning over the center console and their lips meet-

His mouth is warm and soft - a little cautious, until she presses her tongue towards his and he lets out a breath, sinking further into her.

Slowly his fingers weave into her hair, cupping her face with his palms as they press their mouths together: breathlessly, hungrily-

It feels good…and right.

Words bleed from her conscious. It's too much to think about: what they are doing and why.

It just feels right.

/

It's goddamn confusing as hell. But he goes with it (not that he could really resist).

Once she's pulled him close, he sinks his hands into her blonde hair. It's soft and thick. He memorizes the sensation.

She's too far away - her fists grabbing at his shirt and dragging him towards her. It takes just a few seconds until he has climbed over the center console (not quite as smoothly as he would have liked-) and she's cranked back her seat as far as it will go.

Sure, it's a little awkward, but he's drunk on her and she's wrapping her arms around him - his hands are pressing onto the seat by her sides, eagerly nipping at her mouth, forgetting they're in a parking lot and anyone could walk by-

/

Damn, she feels like a goddamn teenager!

She hitches up her skirt a little so he can rest more easily on top of her; press his body a little closer.

He's so solid and real. His warm hands slide to her waist and she groans a little - through her sheer blouse it's almost a little too close. A knot of tension tightens in her gut.

But instead of pulling away, she's pressing up her hips, her body vying for a little friction. She can feel the hardness in his pants now: it's against her hip. He responds by pressing her further into the seat and his weight lying against her is so satisfying. She could lie like this happily for hours, she thinks.

The kisses alternate between toying little flicks of the tongue, to deep full mouthed explorations that leave her gasping for air. It's fun, almost a game: a game that has her heart racing and her mind filing with almost forgotten desires.

God she wants him. He's handsome and kind and just a little smooth. And sexy as hell.

Oh God, what are they doing-?

/

There's no time for second thoughts. The windows are steaming over a little and he's lost track of time. Their bodies are so in sync, you'd think this was something they'd done a million times.

But as her body responds to his, he loses himself more in her. He's trying to hold back a little, resisting the urge to slip his hand under her skirt. He lets himself begin to press kisses down her neck, unfastening one small pearl button so her can nip at the soft flesh that rises from the swell of her breast. She smells divine.

Hell, he wants more-

There's a flicker of light and he pauses, pulling quickly back and blinking a few times. It takes him a second to realize the streetlight has come back on. The inside of the car is now illuminated again.

They look at each other. Her hair's a little mussed, the top button of her blouse is undone. The tightness in his pants is uncomfortable and the creeping heat of embarrassment is rising up his neck.

"I, um-"

He can't finish because she is pulling his face a little closer, her breath shaking: "Come back to mine."

He searches her face - did she mean that? Yesterday she's said kissing him had been a mistake and now-

"What- Wait, are you sure?"

There's a minuscule pause before she nods. "Henry's out and I don't think this is the place for this."

His response is to press a searing kiss to her lips and whisper, "Okay."

_**Thank you for all your messages and reviews! J xx**_


	7. After Hours

"Is merlot okay?"

"Sure," he replies huskily. She glances over at him as she pours two glasses of wine, both on the large side.

It's hard to read his body language. His arms are crosses, a little nonchalantly, as he leans against the door frame from the hallway into the kitchen. His left foot is tucked casually behind his right one, and he's staring at her, his expression almost blank.

Pouring the wine, without allowing her hands to shake, is a little difficult. The adrenaline rush from kissing him in the parking lot waned a little in the ten minutes it took to get back to her place. They'd not talked. Killian had turned on the radio and she'd been glad for something other than tension to fill the air.

Once inside, she'd peeled off her coat and tossed it on the small table beside the door, heading straight for the kitchen. She'd learned at times like these, wine could be the only answer.

Times like these? Who was she kidding. It'd been a good year since she'd been in her home alone with a guy - he'd been a set up from a friend at work. He was a little dull, talked a lot about his car, but he was single with no ties - something rare when you're dipping into your early thirties. Three dates later and they'd gone back to her place for some bad drunken sex where he'd poked and prodded her body with little regard to how she was feeling. Thankfully, he'd passed out not too long into the experience, just as she was sobering up enough to realise this had been a bad idea. She'd avoided his calls after that. The experience had provided enough fuel to re-fire her belief that a satisfying relationship was just not on the cards for her anymore.

"Need a hand?"

Somehow he's stood opposite by her now- separated only by the countertop. One hand is fanned out over the marble. For a second she stares at the small, dark hairs that peek from the cuff of his shirt. She's always had a thing for dark haired guys-

"Yeah-" she begins, sliding over a glass to him as she puts the bottle aside, but then she pauses, "Killian-"

"If you've changed your mind about me being here, I can go-" he interrupts.

A quick breath later and she shakes her head, "No. Stay."

And before she can lose her renewed sense of confidence, she moves, her glass of wine forgotten, and trails around the countertop until she is by his side.

She watches him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing slowly beneath the close-cropped scruff that layers his throat. He lets out a breath that seems a little shaky. Maybe he's nervous. He doesn't seem the type, but just the idea he may be gives her the little boost needed to step closer. Wrapping her fingers over his, where they grasp the wine glass, she slowly lifts it. Bringing it to her mouth, she tips back her head a little to take a sip. He has to lean a little closer and loosen his grip a little. She licks her lips when she's , without warning, he's tugging the glass away and wrapping his other arm around her waist.

There's a second - maybe less than - where she's looking up at him through her lashes. Her heart skips a beat as she waits for him to move.

And then he kisses her.

/

He's been in a bit of a daze ever since he slipped back into his own seat. The drive back to her place was a blur: the blood and hormones thumping through his veins just about allowing enough focus to steer the car and place it into park when they arrived.

It's like he's on autopilot once they get inside. There's something about her that he just can't work out. They barely know each other, but he's so bewitched that his usual smooth tongue is firmly tied as she takes a long, slow sip of his wine.

Normally, this would be the point where he'd lay on the charm. She'd invited him back to her place, clearly she wanted him there - wanted more than a few kisses [hot kisses] in his car. But the tension between them is stretching out, like the tightening of a bow string, and all he can think to do is to take her and kiss her. Waiting just a moment to look into her eyes - to see that she really wants this - before he presses his lips to hers.

It takes only a split second before she's returning the kiss. There's a fire behind her this time, only hinted at during their earlier encounters. She's more confident, grabbing the lapel of his shirt with an urgency that takes his breath away. She rolls back against the countertop, pulling his body over hers, sliding one arm around his back and up his neck, against the skin of his scalp. It tingles where her fingers touch. A shiver pinches the top of his spine.

God she smells good. Like soap and expensive perfume.

Her hand at his collar slips down and presses against his stomach, her fingers spread wide. Her mouth follows, alternating kisses and little flicks of the tongue against his neck as he stretches back his head. Unexpectedly, she gently bites where shoulder meets neck and he can't hold back breathy sigh that slips out- one filled with pleasure and anticipation.

Now her face is buried in the v of skin exposed by his shirt. Her fingers deftly flick open a few more buttons so she can trail her damp lips over the light layer of hair. He swears his chest is going to burst - his heart is hammering so hard, he can't hear much more than its dull thud.

Vying for some control over the sensations, he tightens his hands on her waist until she gasps and pulls back. Allowing himself a brief second to admire her flushed cheeks, before he begins his own advance on the skin exposed by her blouse, pushing his hands further up towards her chest while she wraps one leg around his calf and presses their bodies closer.

His erection is getting painful. He's hard and throbbing and the only relief is the pressure of her hip as it slowly starts to rock against his. He can't wait. Not stopping for permission, her pulls apart the remaining pearl buttons, exposing a sheer, dusky pink bra. He eagerly palms one breast. It's full and firm and sends a tugging, tightening sensation to his groin.

Beneath him she's almost panting - letting out quick little breaths as she leans back over the countertop - displaying herself for him; inviting more.

/

He's all over her (not that she's complaining). Lips, hands, tongue-

The commanding way he navigates her body is powerfully attractive. She senses herself slipping further into a blissful state where she can forget, just for a moment, who she really is.

And it's glorious.

She's not Emma Swan right now, single mom with an extensive collection of business wear. She's just Emma - attractive, desired, maybe even sexy.

Caution is thrown to the wind; she relishes in his touch as his thumb runs over her nipples in turn and they tighten instantly. She lets her hips roll against his. It's painfully clear how much he is enjoying his. The hardness in his pants feels deliciously sinful pressed against her. It takes only a few seconds before she reaches down and begins to run her fingers over him through the material. She twists her hip to give herself access, but still allowing her to rut against his hip and provide barely enough friction to fire the burning need brewing in her stomach.

She can't remember the last time she felt this way.

The liberating thrill provided by an illicit encounter with a man she was so attracted to had been but a distant memory (though now thankfully refreshed). Without shame or indecision, she digs her fingers into the muscles that hide beneath his shirt, pressing in each digit, seemingly to ascertain whether he was real - this was real.

But he is - and this was happening. Her heart leaps victoriously when she feels his lips move down her neck and his tongue snakes a path across her décolleté, taking a moment to run along her collar bones before a cautious hand joins his lips to urge the sheer lingerie lower over her breast until he exposes a nipple. She shivers when she feels his breath gliding over the bare skin. Boldly, she thrusts her chest further forward into his embrace, letting him know what she wants from him and he quickly provides.

/

Everything is a little fuzzy and indistinct. The warmth generated by both bodies is searing hot. Though the kitchen is large and airy, tonight it feels suffocating.

Seeking some respite, he begins to steer their bodies towards the living room. His mouth is occupied in teasing her exposed breast into an erect peak. He stops a moment, nursing it with his tongue so he can check her expression for agreement. Her mouth is open and her eyes lidded and soft. She looks up at him, an expectant air on her face.

She wants more. He says a little false prayer to some god he doesn't believe in, when she drops her leg from where it grasps his and entangles her arms around his neck. Lips fuse, and they stumble through the darkened doorway into the hall, before finally they emerge where intended; the room lit with the sultry glow of a lamp left dimly burning.

Knowing the room intimately, when he its mere acquaintance, she guides them to the soft, plush couch where just a week or so ago they had mulled over the costs of soda and dips. Now everything other than her and the moment is far from his mind, a distant afterthought, as he crashes down against her, enjoying the gentle moan she gives as he settles atop her body. Immediately he returns his attentions to the skin he exposed. She assists him, slipping undone the last button of her blouse with shaking fingers as he concentrates on lavishing the as yet untouched breast with the same attentions its partner received.

/

Selfishly relishing in his touch, her hands rest almost limply on his shoulders as her foot toys against his calf. Absentmindedly she toes off her heels, shifting her lips beneath him until she is comfortable enough - cocooned between the least weight of his body and the soft couch beneath. Her skirt is too tight to grasp him any better. She wriggles a little, tugging up the heavy material just as his teeth scrape over the thin flesh of her nipple, jolting a sharp moment of pleasure right through her whole body, making her tense beneath him as he nuzzles against her chest. His soft hair brushes against the underside of her breast as he moves lower. It tickles a little when it touches her flushed, over-sensitive skin.

Right now, she's painfully aware that neither of them has spoken yet. Maybe if they did then this would stop? Maybe he doesn't talk… during times like these. Maybe she's just thinking about this too much. Thoughts tumble through her mind like errant raindrops in a unexpected wind.

The maybes die when his kisses reach her stomach and his hand starts to slide up her thigh. His movements are slower again - hesitant almost, just like earlier in the kitchen. He looks up, her eyes meeting his just as his lips pull away from the rounded skin of her stomach. They are a deep, berry pink from all the kisses. She is almost hypnotized by the way they fasten to her skin, peeling away so slowly, so erotically, that she holds her breath in anticipation.

It takes a second to understand he's asking if she wants more. God yes, she wants to scream out loud! But speaking seems impossible right now, so instead she fixes him with a lustful stare, the best she can muster, letting him know that she is on exactly the same page.

Rising up the stockinged skin of her leg, his hand induces an involuntary flinch when it reaches the inner section of thigh, where her legs meet and she feels hot and damp. It's been so long since another hand had touched her intimately, and certainly since she had wanted that touch so much. She feels his hands spread out over her hips as he bunches the skirt further up her waist. For a second, she feels too exposed. She curses her mismatched black panties and worries that maybe this is a mistake… But then he is massaging her gently through the twinned fabrics, one digit seeking out the most sensitive spot as his other hand begins to peel down the flesh toned nylons she is wearing.

The sensation of his short, neat nails dragging over her thighs only heightens the expectancy brewing within her. He seems to be taking his time, but maybe that's just because right now every second feels like an hour, as she lays, clothes array, nestled on her chocolate brown couch, a little scared but much more eager, reflecting on how the evening is progressing.

Caressing each leg as he removes the tights, he began pressing small kisses as he works his way back up her body. The touch of his tongue is cool and soft when it darts out from between his lips as he lays his trail. He seems well adept at these kinds of seductions. She shouldn't be surprised - he is handsome and charming, or course he would have-

The thought evaporates when a kiss is pressed against her panties, just where the dampness from her wanting is exposed. It's followed by a firm tongue against her throbbing clit, making her clench her fingers and spread her legs. He moves his attentions in small circles, dampening further the black cotton. One hand is pressing her hips into the couch, the other slipping under the outline of the material, running back and forth along the lace trim, teasingly slipping over her hidden skin beneath while making her writhe in barely contained pleasure.

She's gone to the world as he stops a moment to pull the now sodden underwear down. Not as reverently as earlier. Instead they are quickly dispensed of and he is back nestled in the embrace of her hips, lying partly on his stomach and half on the floor; the couch not long enough to accommodate them both.

A hand cups her ass and drags her a little closer to him. She starts at the contact, warm fingers feeling strange against the cool skin. His hands are large, she thinks briefly, and strong.

/

Every breath, every moan, every gasp is almost too much to bear. She's responding to him so keenly he's all at once fascinated and completely turned on.

The first taste of her is heavenly, her musky sweetness filling his mouth and nostrils, making him harden impossibly. Beneath his fingers, her soft warm skin buzzes. There's a gentle rocking of her hips that accompanies each action - he pauses only for a second when his tongue returns to her swollen clit. He circles it, listening for her changing breaths, smiling to himself when one hand finds its way to fist in his hair. Next, he moves to small flicks of his tongue, alternating with gentle suction, his hand meandering down her thigh and back up between her legs, one finger probing her dampness before easily slipping inside.

She's so tight; he bites back a groan. He runs his finger along the ridged muscles, warm and hot and so inviting he imagines how it would feel to be truly inside her. He presses himself against couch, trying to relieve the growing tension with a little friction of his own.

As he loses himself in his thoughts and his actions, he begins to rub against her inner walls, paying attention to her responses until he is sure he has found the spot. Slowly at first, he presses his finger against it. When she rocks her hips harder, he turns the pressure into a slow, continuous movement, only broken to add a second, more filling finger.

The coordination between mouth and hand is something he mastered long ago, but for some reason today he finds it difficult to restrain his own responses. Rutting into the sofa harder with each movement, his fingers become slicker as her soft moans become more urgent.

/

She finds herself biting back her responses when his lips finally settle between her legs. It's been a while and the slightly foreign sensation is at once startling but undeniably welcome. In only seconds she's tilting her hips in time with his movements, gently urging him on as she bites on her lips and fights the compulsion to look down at him: because that's when it would become really real.

Her son's home room teacher is going down on her on her couch.

Lazily, he swirls his tongue between her folds, savoring her, the hand that had pulled her towards him, now drawing soft circles on her hip she begins to breathe heavily, unable to hold back her appreciation. Each wispy breath cools her: a fitting antidote to the burning she feels.

The sudden presence of a finger pressing at her entrance makes everything so much more intense. She flexes against the mild intrusion. He's gentle and tender, and at the same time firm and demanding. He finds her g-spot quickly - he must notice the way she finches when he presses there. Her toes automatically ball together and the air seems to thicken around them. Slowly she lets her self look.

The dim lamplight is giving the room a close and intimate feel; beams of yellow light dance on the strands of his hair. His arms are grasped around her thighs, fingers pressing into the flesh. She watches his head rock in time with his ministrations, his deliciously messed up tresses making her feel all the more sexy.

"Oh God," slips out when he adds another finger. A second later he looks up, his mouth still buried within her, his eyes heavily lidded. She feels her stomach drop, like the air has been taken from her lungs and she's falling…

He looks so into it, her state of arousal doubles in intensity. As their eyes stay drawn together, he circles her clit more firmly, rocking his fingers deeper into her, building that impossible rise, deep within her gut.

Inside she is twisting and turning. She's not sure what's doing it - his mouth, his hand, the way he is looking at her. But this sensation is deeper than a usual climax feels. She can't pinpoint how exactly. Yet the more he stares, the hotter her cheeks become; the harder he works her body and demands she give in - the more she knows she's gone.

/

There's something about her eyes. Light green, with flecks of golden brown, they seem different in every light. From his current angle, they look almost black - the dim light washing out the colour and replacing it with monotoned darkness, rimmed with long lashes. Her lips remain parted as he watches her. Every action of hers is becoming more rigid, more sharp, more desperate. Her feet press into the couch beside his chest, almost holding him in place. The rocking of her hips continues, her breathing is getting heavier, but their eyes never leave each other.

He knows she is close. She's flexing against his hand, her muscles gearing up. It's surprisingly intense. His limbs are becoming numb where they rest on the floor, but it's not like he cares. He wants this - so much. The lack of sensation just focuses him more.

Killian Jones could never have been called a selfish lover. He likes his partners to enjoy themselves, but it's admittedly mainly as a boost to his own ego. Yet today he wants it for her. For this woman, who seems to have no idea how sexy and lovely she is. He wants her to come - hard.

He _needs_ her to.

/

Emma wants to know what's going on behind those hazy blue eyes. They are fixed and intent - become indistinct to her as time crawls on and she feels her will to stay focused waning and her desire to just give in starting to win. It's gotten to the point that she's not even sure what he is doing. All his movements have become one. Then the wave is rising, cresting-

She pants out her last few breaths, drawing back her legs as the rippling muscles threaten to tear her apart - rising from deep within her gut, spreading out until her fingertips tingle and her toes feel numb. It comes in waves, gently waning like a lapping tide, making her eyes slip closed and a buzzing rise in her ears.

Until everything is silent.

/

Her taste is tart on his lips. He brushes them against the back of his hand as she presses her hips into the soft cushions, riding out the remains of her orgasm. Seeing her disintegrate in front of him is one of the most erotic experiences he has had. It's intimate and arousing. Slowly, he slips his fingers from her grip, taking his time to move up her body until they are face to face.

Gently, her eyelids flutter open. Shyly, Emma looks at him and then blushes. It's awkward for a second, until he drops a kiss on her lips. She lets out a slow breath, punctuated by a quiet, "Hi."

"Hi," he whispers back, unable to hold back the smile that licks at the corners of his lips.

He's strangely content to just lie there, wrapped up together, her body warm and comforting, his mind replaying the scenes of her unraveling before his eyes. Yes, his body wants more - he's hard and ready - but it's overridden by the moment. Startled he realises he _likes _this. He likes they way she feels, the way she smells: the little dreamy smile on her lips while she's slipping back into consciousness as he nuzzles into her neck. It's enough. More than enough. He's sated in an unexpected way. So when her fingers slips down his body he freezes-

"You don't have t-"

"I want to," she whispers in his ear, his gut clenching.

Gently gripping her face, he pulls her back so their darkened eyes meet again. Quietly, he searches her face, feeling a strange combination of anticipation and fear. This is unfamiliar territory.

"I like you," he finally admits.

"I like you too," she replies, moving to kiss him again.

"No but-" he pauses and thinks. But what? "I think we should go on a date?" He's said it before he has even processed the idea fully. A date. Dinner. Dancing maybe. Then he remembers-

_The bet._

The arrangement with Robin hangs heavy around his neck. An internal conflict of right and wrong starts to wage war inside him. What is he doing? Why is he doing this-

"Are you asking me out?" she smiles: radiant, beautiful, devastating.

Her hands are on his hips. Slowly, he dampens his lips with his tongue. "Yes."

"Okay," she whispers, reaching up to snatch a kiss as her fingers find his belt.

Part of him says this is wrong- he wants her to touch him, so badly, but simultaneously there's a seeping guilt that this has all began under false pretences -

Then his belt is snatched away and all arguments die.

/

Her climax has left a soft, damp glow on her skin that permeates deep inside - and the only thing she wants now is to return the favour. She wants to see his eyes roll back into his head. To have his name on her lips. Have _him_ begging for more.

It's an awkward shuffle as they switch places and his pants are unzipped and tugged roughly below his ass. Soon he's resting up on his elbows, watching her.

She pushes up his shirt, letting her palms slide over his stomach. The hair hinted at by his collar covers it. She's never been one much for that, but on him it's ridiculously sexy. Settling between his legs, she circles him with on hand. He's thick and hot and she nuzzles her lips over his tip - enjoying the velvety softness and warmth. Waiting, toying with him, seems a little cruel. So she wraps her lips around him, eagerly taking his length into her mouth - just a little at first so she can run her tongue along his tip. He tastes salty and judders at the contact, flexing in her grip.

Stuttered groans fill the air. Her hand presses against his stomach, grazing her nails over his skin, just enough for him to tense against her. She pulls him deeper into her mouth, her hand still rocking against the exposed hardness.

It's a dance of his moans and gasps, accompanied by swirls of her tongue and gradual increases of pressure. She lets him guide her, a hand slipping into her hair, working in tandem to find the perfect rhythm.

/

God, her mouth feels divine. She's a little cautious at first. Her touches are light and slow. But it doesn't take much until he's putty in her hands, unable to restrain his vocalisations as he's drawn deeper into the delicious soft heat of her mouth. Her tongue is talented - lapping against him, pressing and flicking the skin - keeping him guessing as to her next move.

His hand moves her into a rhythm that he copies with a slight roll of his hips. It's just enough to build him closer and closer - yet still allowing him to relish the sensations. He's lifting out of his body. The heaviness of his limbs subsides. Tension inside him grows quickly. He doesn't want to give in to it just yet, but it seems hopeless.

She presses him deeper into her mouth until he can feel the walls of her throat encroaching.

It's too much to bear-

He can't stop it.

"Emma I-"

She moves harder, quicker, before pulling back and working out his orgasm with her hand. The world explodes behind his eyes into bright sparks. He mutters indecipherable words as the tension inside him dissolves into pure pleasure.

He comes around a few moments later. She's smiling again, shyly. He runs a hand through his hair, blinking a few times; what's just happened slowly sinking in.

"Thank you," he whispers, at a loss for what else to say. She laughs at that - almost girlishly. He feels the little tension remaining between them waning.

"Thank you," she replies as she stands and straightens her skirt. "I just-" she gestures to her hand and he almost blushes. Both are sticky and damp from his release. She slips out of the room for a second and he uses the time to compose himself - sitting up and trying to act normal - as normal as he can with his pants around his ass and a half soft erection on display.

"Here," she says when she returns. A damp towel is placed in his hands. It's a little awkward as he cleans up - he can see she is trying not to look. It only takes a minute and he is tucking in his shirt and locating his belt where she has tossed it on the floor.

He gives her a glance as he stands - belt in one hand, towel in another. A smile is exchanged once more: in part lustful, in part sweet. It takes a minute fold up the towel and rethread his belt. Emma's shirt is rebuttoned, but untucked, both sport mussed up hair and bright eyes.

In bare feet he's a good five inches taller than her. He walks around the couch - she's standing with her arm resting on the back, she's drawing the toes of one foot across the carpet, seemingly at a loss for what to say. He tries to help. "That was… unexpected," he admits.

"Yeah," she whispered lightly. "I don't, you know, do this-"

He nods. Maybe he should lie and say him neither?

"But I don't regret it," she adds, taking away the need for him to respond.

"Neither do I."

His hands move to her shoulders but then a clock chimes.

"It's late…"

"Maybe I should be going," he sighs. She nods but doesn't move.

Deep breaths and meaningful stares stretch out the moment. He doesn't really want to leave, not now-

"I'll show you out," she finally replies.

They silently walk to the door, she turns the lock but her hand pauses on the handle.

"So…"

The goodnight kiss is designed to catch her off guard and he feels a rush of satisfaction when it succeeds. A second his hands cup her face, she stills a moment before eagerly kissing him back, just long enough to leave them both a little breathless.

They rest a moment, cheek to cheek, her fingers toying with the hair that nips at his collar where it trails down the back of his neck. She feels good in his arms. He doesn't want to let go.

Reluctantly, he loosens his grip.

"Goodnight," he presses another delicate kiss on her mouth, "I'll call you tomorrow - okay?"

"Sure."

Then he's outside and the door is closing. A lingering look passes. His stomach tingles. A sense of loss pervades around him as he walks to his car. It's strange and unexpected. His mind struggles to process his thoughts and feelings.

This is different, this is new-

He needs to talk to Robin.

/

She floats to bed on a natural high. She can still feel him - his lips, his hands-

Denying her attraction is futile. But it's more than that-

She _likes_ him.

It doesn't take long to drift to a sated sleep.

She dreams about him.

**_Thank you for all your reviews, follows and support!_**


	8. Unfamiliar Territory

He wakes with a smile lingering on his lips - one he has worn since he sank into the seat of his car the night before.

It's a lazy, punch-drunk kinda smile - you could call it goofy - but he enjoys the way it feels, the way his lips curve and the usual heaviness on his shoulders seems to lift. For a moment, he is invincible.

His skin still hums from her touch. The blissful calm of his release lasted much longer than usual, carrying him into a peaceful night of sleep.

The day seems fresher somehow - the light brighter, the air sweeter…

Thinking to the night before, he begins to burn a fever.

Memories wash over him. Her taste. The sounds she made… The feel of her unravelling before his very eyes fuels the want in his loins. He wants more. She's a drug and he's already addicted. He sinks his feet to the floor and pads to the bathroom; working out his frustration as the hot water peals down his back.

/

The hour before Henry will return should be spent on the usual Saturday chores. Instead, she lingers in bed, wrapping the soft cotton sheets around her body.

She's spent.

Once he left, she'd floated off to bed.

Now, she lies in the early autumn light that peeks through her window, running the evening through her mind. It feels surreal. She thinks she might have imagined the whole thing-

But then she arches her back and feels the familiar ache inside where his fingers worked their magic and she knows it wasn't a dream. So she smiles and lays her head back on the pillow, letting the feeling linger, just a little longer.

/

He calls. And it's a little awkward and stilted and short-

(But her heart is still racing and a shot of adrenaline is running icily through her veins, flushing her cheeks as she rakes her fingers through her hair).

He seems nervous. She's certainly shy - a little embarrassed about the shared intimacy of the night before, a little unsure that he doesn't regret it.

When he mentions coffee, the tension in her shoulders relaxes.

He doesn't regret it.

They are going to meet tomorrow, in the afternoon, when she can leave Henry for an hour or two to do his homework (though she knows he will probably play video games instead). She thinks he's smiling now. It's the lift at the end of each sentence.

She can't help but smile too.

/

He should wait, he tells himself. Play it cool.

But he rang her just before nine anyway.

She sounds tired and is a little quiet (for a second he thought she was going to say it was all a mistake-)

The awkwardness wears away and he finds himself asking her for coffee.

He holds his breath.

(God, really he wants to drive round there straight away…)

"_Sure_," she replies.

(His heart skips a beat).

She tells him Henry will be back soon, so reluctantly, he bids her adieu.

"See you later, _Killian_," she whispers.

He memorises the way she says his name. Her tongue seems to wrap around each syllable, caressing it softly.

He likes the way she says his name.

/

He sits, waiting for Robin, spinning his racquet between his hands, he stares at the lacquered wooden floor of the squash court. Checking his watch, he sighs. Late, as per usual.

It's unusually quiet for a Saturday morning. He can hear the ticking of the second hand of his watch. He's a little tired, rubbing his face with one hand as he straightens up. After calling Emma (his stomach clenches pleasantly whenever he thinks of her) he had showered and headed to meet Robin for their weekly squash game. He had been tempted to blow it off - to stay in bed a little longer and let the memories of the night before wash over him. But the little nagging doubt that had been bothering him - the one that told him he needed to speak to his friend about their bet - had him pulling on his sneakers and heading out of the door before his mind had time to argue.

"Sorry mate!" Robin announces as he breezes into the room, closing the glass door behind him as he tosses his gym bag to the floor. "I was-"

"With Regina," Killian finishes, flashing his friend a look until Robin smirks and nods his head.

"You know me too well."

"Your behaviour is nothing if not expected when it comes to that woman." Killian adds as he stands and starts to stretch his legs.

"You're one to talk," Robin snorts. "I believe that the 'predictable' is your middle name?"

It smarts a little, the words. Robin is busy unpacking his racquet and he contemplates the meaning of what his friend said. He was right - Killian Jones was easy to read. A one trick pony, his father would have said. And it had served him well these past years.

Killian shrugs, brushing off his friend's words - perhaps now was not the time for detailed introspection.

"Come on, let's play."

It's a hard fought match. Killian is taking out his growing internal frustration on the small rubber ball, slicing it with his racquet as it approaches, sending it hurtling towards the wall where it quickly rebounds back to Robin, keeping him on his toes.

There's little talk. Killian grunts a little with the effort of each hit. Sweat is running down his face - dripping from his chin to the floor or his t-shirt. He absentmindedly swipes a hand through his sodden hair as he returns Robin's serve - a little more powerfully that he intended so that it scarcely misses Robin's head - instead careening towards the glass wall behind them, Robin barely moving out of the way in time.

"Jesus, Killian - trying to kill me?"

Chest heaving, Killian shakes his head and manages to squeeze out, "Sorry."

Frowning for a second, Robin rolls his eyes and then walks over to where he left his water bottle.

"Spill it, Jones."

Killian turns and gives him a confused look, "Huh?"

Robin takes a drink and bends down to pick up the errant squash ball. "Whatever the hell has gotten you in this goddamn mood."

"I'm _not _in a mood," Killian retorts, squaring up to his friend, relishing the whole extra inch of height he had.

"Alright," Robin quips, "Then should I go find a safety helmet from somewhere? Or would whole body padding be more appropriate?"

He didn't want to smile. He really, really didn't… But Robin had this way of making light of any situation that made it impossible to keep a serious face when around him.

"Ah, so the mask slips…" Robin teased.

"Sorry," he repeats, the sincerity that was lacking earlier returning with full force as he sat back down on the bench at the rear of the court and dug out his own water bottle. "I had a bit of a night, last night."

"Ruby?"

"No," Killian sighed, shaking his head.

"Ah, Miss Swan then I take it? Don't tell me the bet's over all ready? I was sure-"

Killian glanced up at the other man. "If you mean have I slept with her," he begins, before hesitating, "Then no. I haven't."

"Well then that poses many interesting questions as to why you seem in such a quandary."

Pausing, Killian takes a quick sip of the water. It's lukewarm now after an hour in his bag. He swills it around his mouth before reluctantly swallowing. Why is it so hard to tell his friend that he actually likes this woman? That he wanted out of their silly game? That he didn't see her as a fun project any more, but something else- What, though, he wasn't so sure.

"What mate?" Robin asked with concern.

"You wont laugh?"

(God, he feels like a teenager talking about his first crush, waiting for the judgement of his pubescent friends-)

"Now I'm worried-"

"And I feel like a prize prick," Killian grumbles. He interlaces his fingers before looking up. "Last night, after the dance, I took Emma home-"

"Annndd?" Robin urged.

"Short version, I think the bet is a bad idea." He avoids Robin's gaze, instead squaring his jaw and studying the tiny hairs that layer the back of his hands.

"Is this you conceding defeat-"

"Certainly not-"

"So you-"

Killian presses his eyes shut. "There were some activities that involved the removal of clothes."

"Come on Killian, it's not like you to play coy about sex-"

"Maybe this is different," he replies quietly.

He hears Robin move to sit beside him. "You _like _her?"

"Yeah." (He's surprised how easy it was to say that.)

He feels strangely nervous. Telling his closest friend he is attracted to a woman should not be so difficult - should it? There was a pause of a few seconds as both digested the words.

Robin was the one to break it.

"I never thought I'd see the day-"

Killian groaned, "Don't-"

The hand on his shoulder stilled the words. "I was trying to say, mate, I never thought I'd see this happen. You - hung up on a woman. It suits you."

Swallowing his brief annoyance, he licked his lips quickly. "So I'm hung up?"

"It's written all over your face. And the frustration with which you hit that ball. I have a date tonight you know - can't be damaging the money maker." He gestured to his face, a cheesy grin gracing his lips.

Killian softly punches Robin on the arm, both men laughing lightly until silence descended.

"So," Killian begins, "The bet-"

"Let's call this one void. But you owe me."

Robin stands and reaches out his hand. They briefly shake before picking up their racquets. "And now it's time for me to show you how an arse whooping is really done."

Without comment, Killian resumes his earlier position.

He's thankful that Robin didn't pry to deeply. He's grateful he didn't delve to much into his reasons for calling off the bet or his intentions towards Emma Swan.

Mainly, because he wasn't even sure himself yet.

/

It's the epitome of a lazy day. Henry is back by 10:30. They make pancakes while he regales her with tales of all the 'cool' video games his friend has and that his mom made them real ice cream milkshakes before bed.

She smiles as he talks. It makes her so happy to see him settle into life in this small town so well. It could easily have gone the other way. Henry never fails to make her proud and the way he has handled this move has solidified this feeling more firmly in her heart.

A little later, she's washing dishes, staring out the window at the duck egg blue of the late autumn sky. The dishwasher stands idle. She finds the pleasure of cleaning a dirty dish quite therapeutic when she has the time. As she rinses a plate under the tap a memory of the night before flashes through her mind. Her chest flushes hot as she remembers the feel of Killian's lips on her skin and the way her stomach lurched when he pressed his fingers into her flesh.

It takes a deep breath to compose herself. She pulls off the washing up gloves she was wearing and tosses them aside. Smiling to herself, she turns and rests against the sink. How long had it been since a guy had made her feel like this? Too long. She's missed it - that jittery, excited feeling, the little rush of anticipation when they enter your thoughts.

And then she wishes she had someone to tell. Someone to talk to about what had happened last night. Someone to tell her that she wasn't crazy wanting to pursue something with this man and wash away any lingering doubts. For the first time since moving she feels a little lonely. She thinks about calling someone but hesitates.

But who? Back home her social life revolved around work. But it's not like she can exactly call Regina for a chat about her love life. She runs a few names through her head and draws a blank. It suddenly occurs to her that what she needs right now is a friend.

Walking back into the lounge she ponders her situation. Until now her lack of close female companionship had never been a problem. She was busy with work and Henry- But now she has time on her hands. Henry is getting older and although she has been promoted, working in head office was so much more relaxed than she was used to.

Before she could think better of it, she grabbed her phone from where she left it on the couch.

_Hey Mary Margaret, it's Emma Swan from the PTA. I was wondering if you are free for a coffee later?_

_**A/N so a short chapter which has been incredibly hard to write - my muse is being very uncooperative! And can I say a thank you to everyone for reading, following and reviewing. Your support makes all this worthwhile.**_


	9. Two coffees and a cocoa

_**** Thank you for your patience! I'm normally a pretty speedy writer but I've been finding it so hard to write recently - hence the less frequent updates and shorter chapters. I hope you enjoy this!****_

"Thank you for the invite!" Mary Margaret exclaimed.

The hug she is given is unexpected, and for a moment Emma doesn't know how to respond. But quickly she is returning the gesture before pulling away and giving the other woman a wide smile. "Well, thank you for meeting me. I thought it was about time I got to know some people in this town a little better."

"I'm honored that you thought of me!"

Inside, the cafe is pleasantly busy - the air filled with the scent of roasted coffee beans floating above the gentle hubbub around them. It's warm inside. The two peel off their coats as they wait for service. They chatter about the dance the night before and how well it went. If Mary Margaret noticed that she and Killian had left together then she doesn't say anything.

The line is short and they order quickly. Emma picks a slice of carrot cake to go with her skinny latte while Mary Margaret selects a deluxe hot chocolate with all the trimmings.

"That looks good,"Emma admits as they retrieve their drinks and find a table.

"My guilty pleasure,"Mary Margaret replies as they sit down. "What's life without a little of what you enjoy?"

"Indeed,"Emma blushes, a brief flash of Killian's head between her thighs invading her thoughts before she can push it away. "So…"

It's only then she realizes she knows next to nothing about this woman except she teaches and has a great collection of knitwear. She must be thinking the same thing as their eyes meet and the two women dissolve into soft laughter.

After a minute or two, conversation begins to flow. Emma learns that Mary Margaret is dating a local police officer (David is his name, and she practically glows when she talks about him), she's lived in Storybrooke all her life and loves horse riding.)

Emma, in return, talks about her move, her work, Henry's father (briefly) and soon it's as if they have known each other for months, rather than a few brief weeks.

"So,"Mary Margaret asks, dipping her spoon into her mug to scoop out a little whipped cream, "You're no longer with Henry's father…Any other man in your life right now?"

(Wow, she went straight for it. Emma is pleasantly surprised. She thought her the more reserved type).

"Well-"she blushes. Her fingers tighten around her cup - the soothing heat of the coffee seeping through the porcelain throbs through her still chilled skin.

And there it is - that light, little bubble of excitement - the one that appears when she thinks about him. (And especially about last night-). It sends a shiver down her spine and she lightly bites her bottom lip.

"Ahh, so there is!" the other woman teases. Emma squirms a little in her seat, raising one shoulder in a half shrug.

"Well I don't really know what it is yet,"she admits.

"But you like him, right?"

Emma nods, dipping her head to one side as she raises her gaze to meet Mary Margaret's, "I think so."

(And so that's not _strictly _true. She likes him. A lot. But ever cautious, she doesn't want to say too much just yet-

'Cause what if nothing comes of this, what if it all fizzles out and-)

"Someone from work?"

Emma swallows. Hard. She considers lying for a second, but then-

"No…Actually, you know him."

"I do?"

"Uh huh,"Emma replies, supping down a last mouthful of coffee, "It's Mr. Jones."

Confusion clouds Mary Margaret's face for a moment, her eyes flicker as she thinks. "Killian?"she asks.

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Oh…"Mary Margaret's brow crumples a little and she opens her mouth as if to say something before snapping it shut.

The light bubble in her stomach starts to shift and twist, forming an anxious knot.

"Is something wrong?"

(Oh God, he has a girlfriend.

No, wait, he's married.

Dammit-)

"No,"she shakes her head, "I just-"she hesitates again before the smile returns to her lips. "I just didn't think he was much into dating. But I don't know him very well, so…"

"Well, I'm not even sure it's dating. Well, it's a date. You know."

"Everything has to start somewhere, right?"

Emma smiles in agreement. "So they say?"

The conversation shifts and they chatter animatedly until Emma realizes she needs to go get Henry. The two hug and promise to meet up later the next week.

She's happy when she leaves- it had been a good idea.

She has a friend. Kinda.

(But she tries not to think about the look that passed Mary Margaret's face when Killian was mentioned. It was nothing, right?)

/

"This is… different."

Killian gives her a brief smile as he pushes open the door of the bar. It's a simple timber building, the facade aged by the ocean spray and perched upon the end of the old eastern pier.

"Best coffee in town," he insists as he holds the door open. As she sweeps past, she is briefly encompassed by the smell of his cologne. She takes a deep breath. The butterflies that rose in her stomach when she first saw him waiting for her at the end of the pier make a reappearance. She bites back a smile.

Emma sits. Killian goes towards the counter and takes a couple of menus. As she waits, she plays absentmindedly with the buttons of her wool coat. A nervous bubble rises in her throat.

_This is ridiculous! _She tells herself. It's just coffee and you are an adult-

She tries to calm herself by looking around. The inside of the bar is stripped back wood. Hung about the walls is maritime paraphernalia - paintings, anchors, buoys, flags - even a stuffed seagull that she sees hiding up in the rafters above.

He returns with another devastating smile and she just about melts into a puddle where she sits. It's about all she can to do shyly return it before she slips off her coat to buy her a few more precious seconds to think.

"So-" he begins, pressing his menu against the table with splayed fingers. His words hand in the air between them.

"Yeah-" she whispers, before clearing her throat, "This is…"

"Weird?" he offers.

"I was gonna go with awkward but weird works!"

Their mutual laughing is enough to crack the shell of tension - as satisfyingly as that of the crust of a creme brûlée. She relaxes back into her chair and pours over the beverage choices.

"Mmm," she hums, "Irish coffee."

"A favorite of mine," he admits, "My family is Irish, a few generations back."

"Is that so?" she muses, quickly taking in his dark hair and blue eyes that all of a sudden make sense. "I've always wanted to visit. Ever since I saw that movie, Far and Away-"

"That's a terrible movie!"

"It's not!" she retorts, "I mean, the accents aren't great-"

"They are awful-"

"And who made you an expert?"

Their eyes meet. The ridiculousness of their conversation suddenly occurs to her and she breaks out in a fit of giggles that she can't restrain. Quickly he joins her and they both struggle to catch a breath.

"I'm sorry,' he insists, his breath heaving. "I didn't intend to spend the date critiquing your movie tastes-"

"So this _is_ a date?" she quickly replies, before she can think.

His eyes crinkle a little at the edges. There's a second that passes by.

It's broken by a waitress placing napkins in front of them. "Hey guys, can I get you a drink?"

She looks him in the eye. "Irish coffee," she replies.

"Make that two."

There's a moment - not quite tense, but far from easy- where she holds her breath as the waitress walks away. Is he stalling? His fingers are pushing the black paper napkin in front of him backwards and forwards.

He looks up.

She bites her lip as their eyes meet.

"I was _hoping_ this was a date," he finally says.

And maybe he's blushing (but it is cold outside and maybe it's just a flush of color…), and perhaps she's misjudging the seemingly tentative tone of his voice-

But she can't stop the smile that flickers on her lips, or the happy, light little fluttering in her stomach.

"Me too," she admits.

/

It's _easy_ talking to her.

Everything else loses focus. The room blurs until it's just the two of them. Their drinks arrive but they can't seem to stop talking and his coffee is a little cold when he takes the first sip.

Movies first. Then books, TV (she loves reality TV, he hates it), politics (briefly). Soon they are ordering a second drink and he's can't believe how quickly the minutes are flying by.

Inside it's a little dark now. The winter sun is low on the horizon, barely visible through the small, shaded windows of the pub. He knows she will have to leave soon and he already can feel the impending loss of her company.

There's a quiet hum of voices that almost masks the music from the old fashioned juke box in the corner. It's not busy but not quiet, either - just a happy medium that lends itself to relaxation and casual intimacy.

Around them, the waitress is walking around, lighting the small candles that sit in little red glass jars on every table. They are both leaning towards each other, hands almost touching and have to move apart when it's their candle's turn. Their eyes join as she scratches a match across the box in her hands. It's a drawn out moment, so much said with just a look…

When it's lit, the warm, flickering light dances across her features. Her lashes cast shadows upwards, serving to highlight the rich green shade of her eyes that sparkle with the reflection of the candle light. The flame's gentle illumination hugs the curve of her cheeks, with their small dimples that deepen when she smiles. She's wearing small, diamond earrings that catch the light when she laughs and her head shakes. He feels hypnotized by her - seduced by the ease of her manners and how easy it is to just be around her and how much he wants to spend time with her.

It hits him as she's tucking a strand of hair behind her ear: she's stunning. Beautiful, elegant, sexy- The thought freezes his mind for a moment.

This is an unfamiliar feeling. One he'd hid from for so long, and yet now it was right here staring him in the face.

Somehow, somewhere along the line, he'd started to fall for this woman. This single mom with the dry sense of humor, who seemed almost as awkward as he did about the whole 'going on a date thing', who seemed to be almost as taken aback with whatever was going on right now-

(It's a date and it's going well, he reminds himself-)

"Hey," she murmurs, her eyes crinkling as she reaches her hand across the table to cover his. "You okay?"

He nods, momentarily unable to speak, his throat dry and knotted, his heart rate starting to pick up-

"Killian-"

She seems to think better of whatever she is about to say, her features falling a little, her hand pulling away from his.

"What, love?" he asks, the tightness loosening and being replaced with concern.

"I-" her eyelids sink to close. The fingers of her other hand hug her almost empty coffee mug and he feels a sickening sensation in his gut and a cool dread flush through his veins. "About last night."

And his stomach hits the floor. He's got it all wrong somehow. She's gonna say it was a mistake- he prepares a neutral face.

"I don't do things like that, you know. I mean _ever_."

He swallows and nods.

"I mean, I don't want you to think that's what I do - bring guys home like that-"

The words hit him in his gut.

(_He _does that, he brings women home, he seduces them, he _uses_ them-)

He nods again.

"But I don't regret it."

His breath catches.

"So I guess what I'm trying to say is I'm glad it happened. Maybe it wasn't the way I saw things going- But I do like you. And I'm glad."

Her last words are much quieter and coyer than the rest. It's sweet, how shy she seems. Yet also he feels an instant lift to his spirit, he forgets his concerns of a moment ago. "I'm glad too," he admits.

There's so much more he wants to say but then, of course, on cue her phone rings. She smiles an apology as she pulls it from her purse. "It's Henry," she explains.

She turns away for a moment and he gives her some privacy, raising his hand to the waitress to ask for the bill. After a minute, she's slipping her phone away again.

"I didn't realize how late it is."

He looks at his watch; five p.m. "Yeah," he sighs, "Well, you know what they say about good company…"

"Yeah," she agrees, the apples of her cheeks rounded and rosy as she smiles.

The bill arrives and he drops a twenty on the table. She reaches for her purse before he stops her, "Please, let me."

They bundle themselves up again against the cold. Stepping outside, the horizon is a dusky salmon pink shade, with flickers of gold rippling over the outstretched ocean beneath. "Red sky at night…" she mutters.

"Sailor's delight?"

He stands beside her, a few feet from the door. "Something like that." Turning, she faces him. "I had fun."

"Me too."

And there doesn't seem much more to say right now, not with words anyway. His eyes search her face, asking permission. She rises up on her toes a little, enough to bring her arms up around his neck and pull him closer.

She smells so good. Like sweet soap and soft floral perfume. His hands circle her waist and he brings his lips down to meet hers.

Slowly, achingly slowly, they come together, pressing into each other with an unexpected tenderness that tugs at his heart as their lips part and tongues entangle. It yearning and needy but soft and gentle all the same. Not the urgent hunger of the night before; instead, a tentative exploration with an undercurrent of burgeoning feeling that leaves him wanting more as she finally pulls away.

"I'd better go."

"Hmmm," he sighs, nuzzling against her face, pressing his nose against her cheek before reluctantly pulling back. He waits a second, before asking, "Would you go out with me? On another date, I mean."

"I'd like that," she smiles and presses a kiss against his cheek. "Goodnight Killian."

She's gone before he's ready. He watches her leave, already calculating how long he can wait before he calls her again.

/

"I'm home," she calls as she closes the door, tossing her keys aside before pulling off her coat. The house is warm and toasty and instantly the chill she is feeling begins to fade.

Wandering into the living room, Henry is where she left him with a pile of hopefully finished homework on the small table in the middle of the room. There are cartoons on the TV and he's playing Minecraft on his iPad (again).

"Hey Mom," he replies, his eyes not leaving the screen. "Did you have a good time?"

She swallows as she thinks. She'd said she was going to meet a friend for coffee, which was true, right?

"Yeah kid, it was fun."

She slumps down beside him, snagging the remote control and flicking through the channels.

A comfortable silence falls. He leans into her, resting his head on her shoulder. She turns and kisses him on top of his unruly hair and for once he doesn't protest.

This, she thinks, this is why I moved.

She thinks back to their old life. Simple quiet moments like these were hard to come by, but now it all seems so much easier.

"How about some cocoa?" she asks, knowing he can't resist.

He nods and she ruffles his hair, going to the kitchen and filling the kettle. It only takes a few minutes to heat the milk and create two steaming mugs of deliciousness that she liberally tops with cinnamon. "It's ready," she calls.

He's there in an instant, eagerly grabbing his mug and blowing on the hot liquid even as she urges him to be careful. "Thanks Mom," he says as he takes a quick sip she smiles and does the same.

These are the moments she cherished. The quiet ones where words weren't needed, where happiness and closeness were a feeling, unspoken and shared.

"Are you happy here, Henry?"

"Of course I am," he responds, as though it was the most absurd question in the world.

"I mean, you can be honest, if you're not I-"

"Mom," he cries, stopping her, "I'm not lying. I like Storybrooke. I like the ocean. I like our house. I even kinda like school." He smiles awkwardly.

"Good," she sighs, "I like it here too."

They finish their cocoa with chatter about what will happen in the next week and Henry asks when they can get a Christmas tree (not till after Thanksgiving, she says). Henry even offers to wash their cups when they are done.

She watches him, sleeves rolled up and arms in the soapy water.

She's glad he is happy. So glad.

And she is too.

Work's good. The air is so much cleaner and fresher here by the ocean. She may have even made a friend today.

And then there is Killian.

She doesn't want to get her hopes up - doesn't want to place too much hope on something that might turn out to be nothing.

But she likes him, a lot.

And she'd be lying if she said she didn't hope for more. Much more.


	10. Open Hearts

Almost fully dressed, she sat at her vanity and made her final preparations for that evening's date.

Graham had once told her that red was her best color. That wasn't, of course, what had made her choose the scarlet colored shift dress she was currently zipping up. Of course not. It was just a coincidence.

_Graham. _

It had been a long time since she had thought about him. He was her nearest thing to the one that got away - the closest to a relationship she had gotten since Henry had been born. He had been a coworker in Philadelphia; they had danced around a mutual attraction for months until they finally kissed after a work dinner. After that, they had started dating, casually of course - she told him she didn't want to confuse Henry and he respected that. But then he had been offered a promotion, opening a new office on the west coast. Of course he couldn't turn it down. But, she'd always wondered…

Emma stared at her reflection as she twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with a handful of bobby pins before pulling out a few stands to frame her face. It wasn't often that she wore her hair up, convinced that her broad shoulders made her head look tiny, but the dress seemed to beg for a more formal hairstyle and who was she to deny it?

Hair done, she quickly curled her lashes and added a few liberal coats of inky black mascara. A slick of neutral lipgloss finished off her look. Nice but not _too_ nice. Despite the fact they had already been on a date, of sorts, and she's already kissed him (and more…) she still wanted to play it safe. Tonight she wanted to look like she had made an effort but not that she had spent hours in the process of getting dressed. Even though she had.

That afternoon had been spent trying on every dress she owned, at least twice, before giving up and sinking in the tub until the pads of her fingers wrinkled up and her cheeks were flushed bright pink. Afterwards, she had slunk downstairs and flicked on the TV, Henry eyeing her warily, as she painted her nails while watching re-runs of Judge Judy.

Eventually, he asked, "Are you going out?"

She'd flashed him a glance. He was sitting cross legged in the large armchair by the window, his laptop on his knee. Emma swallowed and took a breath - she had been avoiding telling her son, not quite wanting the conversation where she revealed her date was his homeroom teacher.

"Yes I am."

There was a pause of a few seconds. She let out the breath she had been holding.

"Like on a date?"

She bit her lip and replaced the brush inside its bottle, narrowly avoiding a drip of ruby red polish landing on her robe.

"Uh, huh," she nodded. "I've got a sitter coming for you."

Internally, she scolded herself, _coward_. _You have to tell him…_

"Okay," he quipped, seeming to have lost interest as he turned back to his laptop. Emma picked up the nail polish and stood up to leave the room. "Who with?" he suddenly asked.

Freezing, her jaw dropped open. Should she lie? Maybe save that talk for another date (if there is another date).

God, she hopes there will be another date.

Twisting on her heel, she'd decided to bite the bullet.

"Mr. Jones," she admitted, her smile tight and thin as she waited for her son's reaction.

Henry's brow crinkled, his eyes narrowed-

Emma could feel her stomach churning.

"That's okay, I guess," he sighed, shrugging his shoulders.

"You're fine with this?" she asked, surprised. "I mean I just don't want it to be weird, since he's your, you know, teacher…"

"Yeah…" he seemed to be thinking, his tongue just peeking out between his lips and his eyes fixed on a spot on the corner of the ceiling, "Just don't be all schmaltzy in front of me."

"Of course," she replied, relieved that it had been that easy. She had really expected more of a reaction. "Thanks for being cool about this, kid."

Henry shrugged, "I like Mr Jones and like I said, I just want you to be happy, Mom."

Emma felt her heart melt a little. Damn she had an amazing son.

"But you know what would make it even easier for me?"

"What?" she asked, her tone deadpan.

"If I could have pizza for dinner…" he stared up at her with wide, puppy dog eyes and she wanted to laugh.

"Sure kid," she agreed, watching as Henry gave a small fist pump in victory before she went to finish getting ready.

/

He picks her up just after seven and she can't help the butterflies that fill her stomach (especially when he smiles... _Damn.)_.

They're pretty quiet on the drive; he tunes in an easy listening station and they talk about their day. He tells her how beautiful she looks and she blushes almost the color of her dress.

She glances in the rear view mirror every now and then. It's dark out and the streetlights are whizzing past as they head to their destination (a restaurant; he says it's a surprise). Each light gives her a clearer look at his face: that gorgeous jaw line, that hair that's permanently just on the right side of messed up. She likes to think she's not a shallow person but she can't deny he's incredibly handsome - almost in that movie star way, almost unearthly.

The streetlights gradually cease and the only illumination on the road is the headlights of the SUV. On her right she can just make out the cresting waves of the ocean: frothy white curves that dance in the moonlight.

Eventually, they pull into a small parking lot that faces out onto the water. It is atop a cliff - the edge marked with a white wooden fence. "We're here," he smiles nervously as he puts the car in park before darting to the other side of the vehicle to open her door.

"It's a parking lot…" she replies, confused, as she accepts his offered hand. Killian raises his brow saucily and just grins at her.

"Follow me."

They walk towards the fence that lines the cliff and she soon sees a staircase heading down towards the beach. He gestures for her to go first, following with one hand on her back as she carefully picks her way down the wooden stairs (and thankful she wore shoes with small heels).

At the bottom, she pauses, her mouth agape.

"Do you like it?" he asks, his voice almost hesitant, displaying an uncertainty she would never have otherwise associated with him.

"It's…" Emma takes a breath, her eyes darting over the small building which is built into the cliff. It is whitewashed with a slate tile roof and small windows with diamond shaped panes of glass. Inside, she can just make out the flickering of low light - candles she presumes - and in the breeze there floats the sound of soft piano music. "Wow, how did you find this place?" she asks, turning back to him.

"I've known about it for a while," he shrugs, "They do the best seafood in town."

"It's amazing," she continues as he leads her to the door, a low set one made of thick oak braced with iron bands.

"We can both agree on that. This place is full of history. The coast here used to be famous for smuggling; the caves along this beach were where pirates would hide their loot to evade the taxes that would be imposed by an official port."

"Look at you, full of information," she laughs as they step inside.

"I happen to have a thing for pirate stories," he replies, joining in with her laughter as he closes the door behind them.

/

Inside is even more impressive. The dining room is carved directly into the rock face, the bare stone exposed and fixed with candles and gas lanterns that create a warm, intimate glow.

He had found this place not long after arriving in Storybrooke, after taking to spending his weekends exploring the coastline and woodland that surrounded the small town. Well, during the daytime at least.

They make small talk over glasses of wine as they wait for their entrees. He realizes he likes to make her laugh. She has such a beautiful laugh, he thinks as he listens to her tell a tale of catching a guy trying to steal some tech from a company where she was working and having to shimmy down a drainpipe in a pencil skirt to catch him (she did).

"Is it tough, working in such a male dominated industry?" he asks, as he takes sip of merlot.

"Is it tough working in a female dominated one?" she retorts, biting on her bottom lip until their eyes meet and both laugh.

"Touché," he nods. "I guess, in a way, we both don't like to conform."

"Damn straight," she agrees, reaching forward her glass and tapping it against his.

"So what made you do it - I mean, security seems an unusual choice, for anyone."

Emma settles back in her chair and takes a deep breath. He feels a little trepidation, wondering if it was too intimate a question to ask on a first (_second_) date.

"Chance? Luck?" she shrugs. "I don't know which." She takes a sip of wine and he cradles his glass as he waits for her to continue. "I was twenty two, Henry was four. I'd been working these shitty jobs - waitressing, office temp, retail, you know - for a few years, just scraping by. Then I saw an ad for a job working in the office at a bail bonds company. Basically counting cash, keeping records. It was close to my apartment and the hours were flexible, which was great for Henry. So I applied and got it."

"That must had been exciting."

She smiles wryly, "Not at first, but it paid the bills and gave me time with my son. Then one day they were short one person on a big job - three men who'd been awaiting sentencing for a used car racket - so I went along. And I loved it."

He can see the glow rising in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eye when she talks.

"And from there I just went for it. I did self defense courses, got my licenses and within three years I was running the office and then we branched out into home and business security."

"So how did you come to work for Mills Security?"

"They headhunted me. I was reluctant to make the move at first, they wanted a consultant with field experience but it would mean being based in an office. But, in the end, the money was too good to pass up."

"Do you ever miss it?"

"Sometimes," she nods, as her tongue slips out to moisten her lips, "But all things happen for a reason and I wouldn't change my current situation for anything."

The food arrives and the only sounds for a few moments are the scrape of silverware against bone china and the satisfied groans when a forkful reaches the mouth.

"Since I've shared a little, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

She puts down her knife and fork and entwines her fingers on the table. "How did you end up here, in the middle of nowhere Maine? I mean, the accent tells me you're English…"

"Very perceptive," he quips with a small laugh. "And a good question. I am English, not that I've lived in the UK for more than a decade. I won a scholarship to study in the States - English initially, but I added a teaching credential later."

"You never wanted to go back?" she asks, confused.

"Nothing there for me, love. My parents died with I was in high school," she opens her mouth - he knows to offer some kind of condolence - but he lifts his hand and shoos it away. "It's fine, really, it was a long time ago. My older brother, Liam, took me in after that, he was from my father's first marriage, more than ten years older than me. I thought the sun shone out of his arse when I was a kid."

Emma giggles at that. He's glad he's made her smile again.

"So what about him? Does he visit you…"

Killian shakes his head and stops for a moment before deciding to go on, " I was in my final year when I got a call - he'd gone missing just off the south coast, in the English Channel. He was a accountant, but he loved to sail. He had a boat - the Lady Elizabeth, rather a grand name for not much more that a few planks and a sail. Took it out every weekend, come hell or high water."

"Oh Killian, I'm sorry-"

"Please, it's fine.. It was a along time ago. And at least he died doing what he loves, most people don't get that, do they?"

For the first time in a few minutes, he looks into her eyes, he can see they are welling up a little with tears and he has to stifle and urge to let the sadness overwhelm him. Emma reaches her hand across the table and takes hold of his. The warmth gives him strength.

"I can't believe I told you that. I've not talked about Liam in years."

"Thank you," she smiles, squeezing his hand tighter, "I'm honored that you shared this with me."

"You're just very easy to talk to, I guess. But perhaps let's not share any more sad stories this evening."

"Agreed," she nods, "Come on, this seabass isn't going to eat itself."

/

It's mild out when they finally leave the restaurant, her head's buzzing a little from the atmosphere (and the wine). She looks up at the sky as he is closing the door- thousands of twinkling stars are laid out as far as the eye can see. It's so relaxing.

"I've had a great evening," she says when she feels his arm at the back of her waist.

"Me too," he replies with a kiss on her cheek. A bloom of pleasurable heat swells from the point where his lips met her skin. "But it doesn't have to be over yet - how about a walk?"

Emma looks back over her shoulder, "I'm wearing heels," she reminds him, kicking up one foot to demonstrate her point.

"There is a wooden walkway. Have no fear, your toes shall remain dry and sand free."

They walk, arms joined, along the beach, in the direction of the Storybrooke lighthouse that they can see shining in the distance. The lights of the restaurant soon disappear and they are guiding themselves solely by the full moon. Around them the sand has formed small, rounded dunes, with tufts of dune grass sprouting, defying their dry and barren home.

"It's so peaceful here," she says when the pause to look out over the ocean. "I guess I'm still not used to living by the coast."

"Most people prefer it in the summer, but I think there's something to be said for the moody seas of the autumn and winter."

"Ah…" she coos, "So you're the dark and brooding type?"

"I can be," he quips.

He puts his arms around her. Though she's wearing a trench coat, she can still feel his body heat and it's warm and comforting. She lets him pull her close until his breath is dancing on her cheek.

The slow flutter in her stomach that has been building all night starts to build with renewed urgency. Gently, she places her hands over his, entwining their fingers as they breathe in unison. No longer is she watching the stars and waves, instead her mind is fixed on the way his chest rises and falls and the feel of his pulse on her finger tips.

Hesitantly, she turns. Her head first, till her eyes meet his, his arms loosening and letting her twirl until she's facing him with her hands on his chest. Her eyelids slip closed their lips meet. It's a simple kiss. One that could have many meanings - hello, goodbye, thank you - but today it means _I_'_m glad I met you_.

Killian seems to understand, circling her waist again as he slants his mouth against hers, pouring a pinch of passion into their embrace that has her hands sliding up to his neck and digging into the hair at his nape.

He's stepping backwards and blindly she follows him as he lowers them to sit on the edge of a dune. She should perhaps be a little concerned about sand in her shoes or ruining her coat, but she isn't and instead lies back and lets him pepper kisses along her jaw and throat as she stares up at the stars.

She could swear they are spinning. Surely, the earth is out of control, whizzing around on its axis. That's the only explanation for the dizzy feeling in her head and the lightness in her gut. Sighing with contentment, she closes her eyelids and lets the spinning feeling take control, his mouth finding hers again.

/

Oh he loves kissing her.

Every kiss is something new, something exciting. Every time something that they are both holding back seems to crumble, every touch of their lips brings with it a revelation of passion and understanding that words would fail to explain.

He knows the moment must end soon, but he wants to savor it; savor her. So he tastes the sweetness of her lips and the bitter tang of the perfume she wears on her neck, committing it to memory.

Until finally, reluctantly, he pulls back, his breathing heavy, waiting for her to open her eyes.

She licks her lips before her lashes flutter and he can see her green irises once more. "Hey," she breathes dreamily.

"Hey," he echoes.

They study each other, faces inches apart. It's an open, honest moment, no words needed. Just a look.

And he knows this is special. He can see it in the way she looks at him, in the way his heart skips as her gaze seems to deepen, seeing almost into his soul.

There's a pain in his heart as an old space that he's left closed for so long starts to open.

/

It's there, in his eyes.

That look.

God, it's been so long since she'd seen that. Since before Henry was born.

That look of wonder and hope and expectation-

And she knows she is wearing the same look too.

/

Monday. Usually only bearable after a tall, strong latte and a bear claw, but today it feels different.

Emma strides about the office, all smiles and breezy 'hellos'.

The weekend had been good. Very good. And she was more than pleased that the effects of a date with Killian Jones lasted more than few hours.

"You're mighty chipper today, Miss Swan."

Emma looks up at the cool presence of Regina Mills, all perfect make up and flawless power suit.

"Just in a good mood, Miss Mills. The weekend was kind to me."

"Oh," Regina smiles, placing a hand on her desk as she leans over to look at the file she was working on. "How so?"

"I had a date," Emma replies, surprised at her honesty. Usually she would have made up some other excuse - she usually preferred to keep her work and personal life separate.

"Anyone who I may know?"

"Killian Jones, I think you know him, he was at your cocktail party."

"Ah," Regina said, putting down the manilla file that as in her hands, "Killian Jones."

Emma was sure she heard a hint of disdain in the other woman's voice. "Is there a problem…?"

Regina flashes her a glance, her cocoa colored eyes giving nothing away. She tapped her glossy, red nails on the desk for a second before she shook her head. "No, no problem." She seems to hesitate for a second, "Just be careful. You're new around here."

Regina didn't give her a chance to ask any more questions, instead she just turned and walked away.

Emma felt a little flutter in her gut again, but instead of butterflies, it was tiny needles of anxiety, pricking away at her. First Mary Margaret, then Regina - was there something about Killian she didn't know?

But then she thinks back to their date and how open and honest he had been with her about his brother, how charming and kind he was and the way his kisses scorched her skin.

She tries to shrug off the feeling of unease. She prides herself on judging people by their actions not rumor and reputation.

(But she couldn't help but think, what were they not telling her about him?).


End file.
